Kitabı oku: «Wild Adventures round the Pole», sayfa 16
“Mr Wilson, I find I can do with another mate, and I appoint you to the post.”
Ted was a little taken aback; a brighter light came into his eyes; he muttered something – thanks, I suppose – but the men’s cheering drowned his voice. Then our heroes shook hands with him all around, and McBain gave the order, —
“Pipe down.”
But as soon as Ted Wilson returned to his shipmates they shouldered him, and carried him high and dry right away forward, and so down below.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
A Wonderful Yankee – “Making Off” Skins – Preparing to “Bear up” – The Summer Home of the Giant Walrus – The Ships Part
In two days the ships sighted the island of Jan Mayen. As they neared it, they found the ice so closely packed around the shore that all approach even by boats was out of the question, so the sails were clewed, the ice-anchors got out, and both ships made fast to the floe.
It was not long ere Captain Cobb was on board the Arrandoon, to welcome our heroes back to “his island of Jan Mayen.”
He was profuse in his thanks for what he called the clever kindness of Captain McBain, in saving his little yacht from a fatal accident among the ice; and, of course, they would do him the honour to come on shore and dine with him. He would take it as downright “mean” if they did not.
There was no resisting such an appeal as this, so, leaving their ships in charge of their respective mates, both McBain and Silas, in company with our heroes – Sandy McFlail, Seth, and all – they trudged off over the snowy bergs to take dinner in the hut of the bold Yankee astronomer. Very unprepossessing, indeed, was the building to behold from the outside, but no sooner had they entered, than they opened their eyes wide with astonishment.
When our young friends had visited it before, the hut looked neither more nor less than a big hall, or rather barn. But now – why, here were all the luxuries of civilised life. The place was divided into ante-room, saloon, and bed-chamber, and each apartment seemed more comfortable than another. The walls of the saloon were covered with rich tapestry, the floor with a soft thick carpet. There were couches and easy-chairs and skins galore, and books and musical instruments. A great stove, of American pattern, burned in the centre, giving out warmth and making the room look doubly cheerful, and overhead swung an immense lamp, which shed a soft, effulgent light everywhere, so that one did not miss the windows, of which the hut was minus. At one end of this apartment was a dining-table, as well laid and as prettily arranged as if it stood in the dining-hall of a club-room in Pall Mall, and beside the table were two sable waiters clad in white.
Captain Cobb seemed to thoroughly enjoy the looks of bewilderment and wonder exhibited on the faces of his guests.
“Why,” said McBain at last, “pardon me, but you Yankees are about the most wonderful people on the face of the earth.”
“Waal,” said the Yankee, “I guess we like our little comforts, and don’t see any harm in having them.”
“So long’s we deserve them,” put in Seth, who, at that moment, really felt very proud of being a Yankee.
“Bravo! old man,” cried his countryman; “let us shake your hand.”
“And now, gentlemen,” he continued, “sit in. I reckon the keen air and the walk have given ye all an appetite.”
Soups, fish, entries, joints – why I do not know what there was not in the bill-of-fare. It was a banquet fit for a king.
“I can’t make out how you manage it,” said McBain. “Do you keep a djin?”
Cobb laughed and summoned the cook. If he was not a djin, he was just as ugly. Four feet high – not an inch more – with long arms, black skin, flat face, and no nose at all worth mentioning. He was dressed as a chef, however, and very polite, for at a motion from his master, he salaamed very prettily and retired.
At dessert the host produced a zither, and, accompanying himself on this beautiful instrument, sang to them. He drawled while talking, but he sang most sweetly, and with a taste and feeling that quite charmed Rory, and held Silas and the doctor spell-bound. He was indeed a wonderful Yankee.
“Do you know,” said Rory, “I feel for all the world like being in an enchanted cave? Do sing again, if only one song.”
It is needless to add that our friends spent the evening most enjoyably. It was a red-letter night, and one they often looked back to with pleasure, and talked about as they lay around their snuggery fire, during the long dreary time they spent in the regions round the Pole.
“I’m glad, anyhow,” said Captain Cobb, as he bade them good-bye on the snow-clad beach, “that I’ve made it a kind o’ pleasant for ye. Don’t forget to call as you come back, and if Cobb be here, why, Cobb will bid you welcome. Farewell.”
By eight bells in next morning watch everything was ready for a start. The dogs – twelve in number – were got on board and duly kennelled, and the old trapper was installed as whipper-in.
“But I guess,” said Seth, “there won’t be much whipping-in in the play. Trapper Seth is one of those rare old birds who know the difference between a dog and a door-knocker. Yes, Seth knows that there’s more in a good bed and a biscuit, with a kind word whenever it is needed, than there is in all the cruel whips in existence.”
The kennelling for the poor animals was got up under the supervision of Ap and Seth himself. It was built on what the trapper called “scientific principles.”
There was a yard or ran in common for the whole pack; but the large, roomy sleeping compartment had a bench, on which all twelve dogs could sleep or lie at once, yet nevertheless it was divided by boards about a foot high into six divisions. This was to prevent the dogs all tumbling into a heap when the ship rolled. The bedding was straw and shavings; of the former commodity McBain had not forgotten to lay in a plentiful supply before leaving Scotland. There was, besides, a whole tankful of Spratts’ biscuits, so that what with these and the ship’s scraps, it did not seem at all likely that the dogs would go hungry to bed for some time to come.
Seth was now much happier on board than ever he had been, because he had duties to perform and an office to fill, humble though it might be.
At half-past eight Silas came on board the Arrandoon to breakfast. Allan and Rory were tramping rapidly up and down the deck to keep themselves warm, for, though the wind was blowing west-south-west, it was bitterly cold, and the “barber” was blowing. The barber is a name given to a light vapoury mist that, when the frost is intense and the wind in pertain directions, is seen rising off the sea in Greenland. I have called it a mist, but it in reality partakes more of the nature of steam, being due to the circumstance of the air being ever so much colder than the surface of the water.
Oh! but it is a cold steam – a bitter, biting, killing steam. Woe be to the man who exposes his ears to it, or who does not keep constantly rubbing his nose when walking or sailing in it, for want of precaution in this respect may result in the loss of ears or nose, and both appendages are useful, not to say ornamental.
“Good morning,” cried Silas, jumping down on to the deck.
“The top of the morning to you, friend Silas,” said Rory; “how do you feel after your blow-out at Captain Cobb’s?”
“Fust-rate,” said Silas – “just fust-rate; but where is Ralph and the captain?”
“Ralph!” said Rory; “why, I don’t suppose there is a bit of him to be seen yet, except the extreme tip of his nose and maybe a morsel of his Saxon chin; and as for the captain, he is busy in his cabin. Breakfast all ready, is it, Peter? Thank you, Peter, we’re coming down in a jiffy.”
Just as they entered the saloon by one door, McBain came in by another.
“Ah! good morning, Captain Grig,” he cried, extending his hand. “Sit down. Peter, the coffee. And now,” he continued, “what think you of the prospect? It isn’t exactly a fair wind for you to bear up, is it?”
“The wind would do,” said Silas; “but I’m hardly what you might call tidy enough to bear up yet. It’ll take us a week to make off our skins, and a day more to clean up. I’d like to go home not only a bumper ship, but a clean and wholesome sweet ship.”
“Well, then,” McBain said, “here is what I’ll do for you.”
“But you’ve done so much already,” put in Silas, “that really – ”
“Nonsense, man,” cried McBain, interrupting him; “why, it has been all fun to us. But I was going to say that instead of lying here for a week, you had better sail north with us, Spitzbergen way, and my men will help you to make off and tidy up. Who knows but that after that you may get a fair wind to carry you right away south into summer weather in little over a week?”
“Bless your heart!” said Silas; “the suggestion is a grand one. I close with your offer at once. You see, sir, we Greenlandmen generally return to harbour all dirty, outside anyhow, with our sides scraped clean o’ paint, and our masts and spars as black as a collier’s.”
“You shan’t, though,” said McBain. “We’ll spend a bucket or two of paint over him, won’t we, boys?”
“That will we,” said Ralph and Allan, both in one breath.
“And I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” added Rory.
“Something nice, I’m certain,” said Silas.
“I’ll paint and gild that Highland lassie of yours that you have for a figure-head.”
“Glorious! glorious!” cried Silas Grig.
“Why, my own wife won’t know the ship. And, poor wee body! she’ll be down there looking anxiously enough out to sea when she hears I’m in the offing. Oh, it will be glorious! Won’t my matie be pleased when he hears about it!”
“I say, though,” said Rory, “I’ll change the pattern of your Highland lassie’s tartan. She came to the country a Gordon, she shall return a McGregor.”
“Or a McFlail,” suggested Sandy.
“Ha! ha! ha!” This was an impudent, derisive laugh from Cockie’s cage, which made everybody else laugh, and caused Sandy to turn red in the face.
After breakfast the ice-anchors were cast off and got on board, and sail set. The Arrandoon led, keeping well clear of the ice, and taking a course of north-east and by north. When well off the ice, and everything working free and easy, McBain called all hands, and ordered the men to lay aft.
“Men,” he said, “you all signed articles to complete the voyage with me to the Polar regions and back. Most of you knew, as you put your names to the paper, what you were about, because you had been here before, but some of you didn’t. Now I am by no means short-handed, and if any of you thinks he has had enough of it already, and would like to return to his country, step forward and say so now, and I’ll make arrangements with Captain Grig for your passage back.”
Not a man stirred.
“I will take it as a favour,” continued the captain, “if any one who has any doubts on his mind will come forward now. I want only willing hands with me.”
“We are willing, we are willing hands,” the men shouted.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” said bold Ted Wilson, stepping forward, “but I know the crew well. I’m sure they all feel thankful for your kind offer, but ne’er a man Jack o’ them would go back, if you offered to pay him for doing so.”
The captain bowed and thanked Ted, and the men gave one hearty cheer and retired.
Once fairly at sea, McBain sent two whalers on board the Scotia, their crews rigged out in working dress, and making off was at once commenced.
Upright boards were made fast here and there along the decks; the skins, with their two or three inches of blubber attached, were handed up from below, and the men set to work in this way – they stood at one side of the board and spread the skin in front of them on the other; then they leant over, and first cutting off all useless pieces of flesh, etc, they next cleaned the blubber from off the skin. This was by other hands cut into pieces about a foot square, carried away, and sent below to be deposited in the tanks. Other workmen removed the cleaned skins. These were dashed over with rough salt, rolled tightly and separately up, and cast into tanks by themselves. This latter duty devolved upon the mates, and old Silas himself stood, with book in hand, “taking tally,” that is, counting the number of skins as they were passed one by one below. The refuse, or “orra bits,” as Scotch sailors call them, were thrown overboard by bucketfuls, and over these thousands of screaming gulls fought on the surface of the water, and scores of sharks immediately beneath.
It was a busy scene, and one that can only be witnessed in Greenland north.
In three days all the skins were made off and stowed away. All this time the men had been as merry as sheep-shearers, and only on the last day did Silas splice the main-brace, even then diluting the rum with warm coffee.
Then came the cleaning up, and scouring of decks below and above, and white-washing and mast-scraping. After this McBain sent his painters on board, and in less than four-and-twenty hours she looked like a new ship.
And Rory was busy below on the ’tween decks. The Highland lassie had been unshipped, and taken below for him to paint and gild. Rory, mind you, did not wish it to be unshipped. He would have preferred being swung overboard. There would have been more fun in it, he said. But Silas would not hear of such a thing. The cold, he feared, would benumb him so that he might drop off into the sea, to the infinite joy and satisfaction of a gang of unprincipled sharks that kept up with the ship, but to the everlasting sorrow of him, Captain Silas Grig.
When the ship was all painted, and the masts scraped and varnished, and the Highland lassie – brightly arrayed in gold and McGregor tartan – re-shipped, why then, I do not think a prouder or happier man than Silas Grig ever trod a quarter-deck.
The day after this everybody on the Arrandoon was busy, busy, busy writing letters for home.
They were thus engaged, when a shout came from the crow’s-nest, —
“Heavy ice ahead!”
It was the ice-bound shores of the southernmost islands of Spitzbergen they had sighted. They passed between several of these, and grandly beautiful they looked, with their fantastically-shaped sides glittering green and blue and white in the sunshine. These islands seemed to be the northern home or summer retreat of the great bladder-nosed seal and the giant walrus. They basked on the smaller bergs that floated around them, while hundreds of strange sea-birds nodded half asleep on the snow-clad rocks.
It was here where the two ships parted, the Canny Scotia bearing up for the sunny south, the Arrandoon clewing sails and lighting fires to steam away to The Unknown Land.
There were tears in poor Rory’s eyes as he shook hands with Silas, and he could not trust himself to say much. Indeed, there was little said on either hand, but the farewell wishes were none the less heartfelt for all that. There is always somewhat of humour mixed up with the sad in life. It was not wanting on this occasion. Silas had brought a servant with him when he came to say adieu. This servant carried with him a mysterious-looking box. It was all he could do to lift it. Seeing McBain look inquiringly at it, —
“It’s just a drop of green ginger,” said Silas. “When you tap it, boys, when far away from here, you won’t forget Silas, I know. I won’t forget you, anyhow,” he continued; “and look here, boys, if a prayer from such a rough old salt as I am availeth, then Heaven will send you safely home again, and the first to welcome you will be Silas Grig. Good-bye, God be wi’ ye.”
“Good-bye, God be wi’ ye.”
Chapter Twenty Nine.
Northward Ho! – Hoisting Beacons – The White Fog – The Great Sea-Serpent
“Good-bye, and God be with you.”
It was a prayer as heartfelt and fervent as ever fell from the lips of an honest sailor.
The Arrandoon steamed away, and soon was hidden from view behind a lofty iceberg, and all that Silas Grig, as he stood on his own quarter-deck, could now hear, was the sad and mournful wail of Peter’s bagpipes. Peter was playing that wild and plaintive melody which has drawn tears from so many eyes when our brave Highland regiments were departing for some far-off seat of wax, to be —
“Borne on rough seas to a far-distant shore,
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.”
“Heigho! matie,” sighed Silas, talking to his chief officer and giving orders all in one breath, “I don’t think we’ll – haul aft the jib-sheet – ever see them again. I don’t think they can – take a pull on the main-brace – ever get back from among that fearful – luff a little, lad, luff – ice, matie. And the poor boys, if any one had told Silas he could have loved them as much as he does in so short a time, he would have laughed in his face. Come below, matie, and we’ll have a drop o’ green ginger. Keep her close, Mortimer, but don’t let her shiver.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” said the man at the wheel.
In a few hours the wind got more aft, and so, heading now for more southern climes, away went the Canny Scotia, with stun’sails up. I cannot say that she bounded over the waters like a thing of life. No; but she looked as happy and frisky as a plough-horse on a gala day, that has just been taken home from the miry fields, fed and groomed, and dressed with ribbons and started off in a light spring-van with a load of laughing children.
But eastwards and north steamed the Arrandoon. Indeed, she tried to do all the northing she could, with just as little easting as possible. She passed islands innumerable; islands that we fail to see in the chart, owing, no doubt, to the fact that they are usually covered entirely with ice and snow, and would be taken for immense icebergs. But this was a singularly open year, and there was no mistaking solid rocky land for floating ice.
The bearings of all these were carefully put down in the charts – I say charts, because not only the captain and mate, but our young heroes as well, took the daily reckoning, and kept a log, though I am bound in the interests of truth to say that Ralph very often did not write up his log for days and days, and then he impudently “fudged” it from Rory’s.
“Are you done with my log?” Rory would sometimes modestly inquire of Ralph as he sat at the table busily “fudging.”
“Not yet, youngster,” Ralph would reply; “there, you go away and amuse yourself with your fiddle till I’m done with it, unless you specially want your ears pulled.”
McBain landed at many of these islands, and hoisted beacons on them. These beacons were simply spare spars, with bunches of light wood lashed to their top ends, so that at some little distance they looked like tall brooms. He hoisted one on the highest peak of every island that lay in his route.
They came at length to what seemed the very northernmost and most easterly of these islands, and on this McBain determined to land provisions and store them. It would tend to lighten the ship; and “on the return voyage,” said the captain, “if so be that Providence shall protect and spare us, they will be a welcome sight.”
This done, the voyage was continued, and the sea becoming clearer of ice towards the west, the course was altered to almost due north.
The wind drawing round more to the south, the fires were banked, and the vessel put under easy sail. The water all round looked black and deep; but, with all the caution of your true sailor, McBain had two men constantly in the chains to heave the lead, with a watch continually in the crow’s-nest to give warning of any sudden change in the colour of the water. More than once such a change was observed, the surface becoming of a yellowish ashen hue away ahead of them. Then the main or fore yard was hauled aback, and a boat despatched to investigate, and it was found that the strange appearance was caused by myriads of tiny shrimplets, what the northern sailor calls “whale’s food.” Whether this be whale food or not I cannot say for certain, but several times our heroes fell in with a shoal of bottle-noses, disporting themselves among these curious ashen-hued streams.
This formed a temptation too great to resist, for the oil would do instead of fuel when they wintered away up in the extreme north. So boats were lowered – not two but four, for these brutes are as wild as the winds and more wily than any old fox. No less than four were “bagged,” as Rory called it. They were not large, but the blubber obtained from them was quite sufficient to fill one large tank. The best of it was, that Ralph – big, “plethoric” (another of Rory’s pretty words), Saxon Ralph, made quite a hero of himself by manfully guiding his boat towards a floundering monster that was threatening destruction to the third whaler, which was fast to her, and skilfully spearing her at the very nick of time.
Rory was in the same boat, and drenched in blood from head to heels though both of them were, he must needs get up and shake his “baby brother” by the hand.
“Oh, sure!” said Rory, with tears in his eyes, “it’s myself that is proud of the English race, after all. They haven’t the fire of the Gael; but only just awaken them! – Dear Ray, you’re a broth of a boy, entirely.”
“What do you think,” said McBain, one morning just after breakfast – “what do you think, Rory, I’m going to make to-day?”
“Sure, I don’t know,” said Rory, all interest.
“Why, fenders,” said McBain.
“Fenders?” ejaculated Rory, with wider eyes. “Fenders? troth it’ll be fire-irons you’ll be making next, sir; but what do you want with fenders?”
“You don’t take,” said Ralph. “It is fenders to throw overboard when the ice is too obtrusive, isn’t it, sir?”
“That’s it,” said the captain, laughing. “Sometimes the bergs may be a bit too pressing with their attentions, and then I’ll hang these over. That’s it.”
It took nearly a fortnight to complete the manufacture of these fenders or trusses, for each of them was some twelve feet long by three in diameter composed of compressed straw and shielded by knitted ropework.
To the captain’s foresight in making these fenders, they several times owed the safety of their gallant ship during the winter that followed.
A whole month passed away. The sun now set every night, and the still, long day began to get sensibly shorter.
The progress northward was hindered by dense white fogs, which at times hugged the ship so closely that, standing by the bowsprit, you could not see the jibboom-end. The vessel, as Sandy McFlail expressed it, seemed enveloped in huge sheets of wet lint. Then the fog would lift partially off and away – in other words, it seemed to retire and station itself at some distance, with the ice looming through it in the most magical way. At these times the ship would be stopped, and our heroes were allowed to take boat exercise around the Arrandoon, with strict injunctions not to go beyond a certain distance of the vessel. Their laughing and talking and singing never failed to bring up a seal or two, or a round-eyed wondering walrus, or an inquisitive bladder-nose, but the appearance of these animals, as they loomed gigantic through the fog, was sometimes awful in the extreme. When a malley or gull came sweeping down towards them it looked as big as the fabulous Roc that carried away Sinbad the Sailor, and Rory would throw himself in the bottom of the boat and pretend to be in a terrible fright.
(The optical illusions caused among the ice by these fogs are well and humorously described in a book just to hand called “The Voyage of the Vega” (Macmillan and Co). I myself wrote on the same subject thirteen years ago, in a series of articles on Greenland North.)
“Oh! Ray, boy, look at the Roc,” he would cry. “I’m come for, sure enough. Do catch hold of me, big brother. Don’t let the great baste carry me off. Sure, he’ll fly up to the moon with me, as the eagle did with Daniel O’Rourke.”
I think the fog must have caused delusions in sound as well as sight, else why the following.
They were pulling gently about, one day, in the first whaler, when, borne along on the slight breeze that was blowing, came a sound as of happy children engaged at play. The merry laughter and the occasional excited scream or shout were most distinctly audible.
“Whatever can it be?” cried Allan, looking very serious, his somewhat superstitious nature for a moment gaining the ascendency.
“Sure,” said Rory, “you needn’t pull so long a face, old man; it’s only the childer just got out of school.”
The “childer” in this instance were birds.
“It’s much clearer to-day,” said Stevenson, one morning, as he made his usual report. “We can see the clouds, and they’re all on the scud. I expect we’ll have wind soon, sir.”
“Very well, Mr Stevenson,” was the reply, “be ready for it, you know; have the fires lit and banked, and then stand by to get the ice-anchors and fenders on board,” (the ship was fast to a berg).
“There is a line of ice to the westward, sir, about a quarter of a mile off, and clear water all between.”
“Thank you, Mr Stevenson.”
But Stevenson did not retire. He stopped, hesitatingly.
“You’ve something to ask me, I think?” said McBain.
“I’ve something to tell you,” replied the mate, with a kind of a forced laugh. “I dare say you will think me a fool for my pains, but as sure as you gentlemen are sitting there at breakfast this morning, about five bells in the middle watch I saw – and every man Jack of us saw – ”
“Saw what?” said McBain. “Sit down, man; you are looking positively scared.”
“We saw —the great Sea-Serpent!”
(What is herein related really occurred as described. I myself was a witness to the event, being then in medical charge of the barque Xanthus, recently burned at sea.)
McBain did not attempt to laugh him out of his story, but he made him describe over and over again what he had seen; then he called the watch, and examined them verbally man by man, and found they all told the self-same tale, talking soberly, earnestly, and truthfully, as men do who feel they are stating facts.
The terrible monster they averred came from the northwards, and was distinctly visible for nearly a minute, passing between the ship and the ice-line which Stevenson had mentioned. They described his length, which could not have been less than seventy or eighty yards, the undulations of his body as he swept along on the surface of the water, the elevated head, the mane and – some added – the awful glaring eyes.
It did not come on to blow as the mate predicted, so the ship made no move from her position, but all day long there was but little else talked about, either fore or aft, save the visit of the great sea-serpent, and as night drew on the stories told around the galley fire would have been listened to with interest by any one at all fond of the mysterious and awful.
“I mean,” said Rory, as he retired, “to turn out as soon as it is light, and watch; the brute is sure to return. I’ve told Peter to call me.”
“So shall I,” said Allan and the doctor.
“So shall I,” said Ralph.
“Well, boys,” said McBain, “I’ll keep you company.”
When they went on deck, about four bells in the middle watch, they were not surprised to find all hands on deck, eagerly gazing towards the spot where they had seen “the manèd monster of the deep,” – as poet Rory termed him – disappear.
It was a cold, dull cheerless morning; the sun was up but his beams were sadly shorn – they failed to pierce the thick canopy of clouds and mist that overspread the sky, and brought the horizon within a quarter of a mile of them. They could, however, easily see the ice-line – long and low and white.
A whole hour passed, and McBain at all events was thinking of going below, when suddenly came a shout from the men around the forecastle.
“Look! look! Oh! look! Yonder he rips! There he goes!”
Gazing in the direction indicated, the hearts of more than one of our heroes seemed to stand still with a strange, mysterious fear, for there, rushing over the surface of the dark water, the undulated body well-defined against the white ice-edge, was – what else could it be? – the great sea-serpent!
“I can see his mane and head and eyes,” cried Rory. “Oh! it is too dreadful.”
Then a shout from the masthead, —
“He is coming this way.”
It was true. The manèd monster had altered his course, and was bearing straight down upon the Arrandoon.
No one moved from his position, but there were pale, frightened faces and starting eyes; and though the men uttered no cry, a strange, frightened moan arose, a fearful quavering “Oh-h-h?” – a sound that once heard is never to be forgotten. Next moment, the great sea-serpent, with a wild and unearthly scream, bore down upon the devoted ship, then suddenly resolved itself into a long flight of sea-birds (Arctic divers)!
So there you have a true story of the great sea-serpent, but I am utterly at a loss to describe to you the jollity and fun and laughing that ensued, as soon as the ridiculous mistake was discovered.
And nothing would suit Ted Wilson but getting up on the top of the bowsprit and shouting, —
“Men of the Arrandoon, bold sailors all, three cheers for the great sea-serpent. Hip! hip! hip! Hurrah!!!”
Down below dived Ralph, followed by all the others. “Peter! Peter! Peter!” he cried.
“Ay, ay, sir,” from Peter.
“Peter, I’m precious hungry.”
“And so am I,” said everybody.
Peter wasn’t long in laying the cloth and bringing out the cold meat and the pickles, and it wasn’t long either before Freezing Powders brought hot coffee. Oh! didn’t they do justice to the good things, too!
“I dare say,” said the doctor, “this is our breakfast.”
“Ridiculous!” cried Ralph, “ridiculous! It’s only a late supper, doctor. We’ll have breakfast just the same.”
“A vera judeecious arrangement,” said Sandy.
