As soon, therefore, as the storm abated Cabot sallied forth with his gun, still hopeful, in spite of many disappointments, of finding some bird or beast that, by a lucky shot, might be brought to the table.
The ice pack was of such vast extent that it seemed as though it must support animal life of some kind, but Cabot traversed it that day for many miles without finding so much as a track or a feather.

That night's supper was a pot of tea, and a similar one formed the sole nourishment upon which Cabot again set forth the next morning for another of those weary hunts.
This time he went further from the hut than he had dared go on previous expeditions; but on them he had been hopeful and knew that even though he failed in his hunting he would still find food awaiting him on his return.

Now he was desperate with hunger, and the knowledge that failing in his present effort he would not have strength for another.
In his mind, too, he carried a vivid picture of poor White, crouching in that wretched hut over an expiring blaze fed by the very last of their wood.
"I simply can't go back empty-handed!" he cried aloud.

"It would be better not to go back at all, and let him hope for my coming to the last." So the young hunter pushed wearily and hopelessly on, until he found himself at the foot of a line of icebergs that had been frozen into the pack, where they resembled a range of fantastically shaped hills.
Cabot had seen them from a distance on a previous expedition, and had wondered what lay beyond.

Now he determined to find out, though he knew if he once crossed them there would be little chance of regaining the hut before dark.