“Now, then, don’t get angry, Pen; I didn’t know your nose was so touchy. I like a glass of whisky as well as anybody, especially in such a temperature; but if I know it’ll do me more harm than good, I go without.”
“You go without,” said Warren, the stoker; “but everyone don’t go without.”
“What do you mean, Warren?” asked Garry, looking fixedly at him.
“I mean that for some reason or other there are spirits on board, and I know they don’t go without in the stern.”
“And how do you know that?” asked Garry.
Warren did not know what to say: he talked for the sake of talking.
“You see Warren don’t know anything about it, Garry,” said Bolton.
“Well,” said Pen, “we’ll ask the commander for a ration of gin; we’ve earned it well and we’ll see what he says.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” answered Garry.
“Why?” cried Pen and Gripper.
“Because he’ll refuse. You knew you weren’t to have any when you enlisted; you should have thought of it then.”
“Besides,” replied Bolton, who took Garry’s part because he liked his character, “Richard Shandon isn’t master on board; he obeys, like us.”
“Who is master if he isn’t?”
“The captain.”
“Always that unfortunate captain!” exclaimed Pen. “Don’t you see that on these ice-banks there’s no more a captain than there is a public? It’s a polite way of refusing us what we’ve a right to claim.”
“But if there’s a captain,” replied Bolton, “I’ll bet two months’ pay we shall see him before long.”
“I should like to tell the captain a bit of my mind,” said Pen.
“Who’s talking about the captain?” said a newcomer. It was Clifton, the sailor, a superstitious and envious man. “Is anything new known about the captain?” he asked.
“No,” they all answered at once.
“Well, I believe we shall find him one fine morning installed in his cabin, and no one will know how he got there.”
“Get along, do!” replied Bolton. “Why, Clifton, you imagine that he’s a hobgoblin—a sort of wild child of the Highlands.”
“Laugh as much as you like, Bolton, you won’t change my opinion. Every day as I pass his cabin I look through the keyhole. One of these fine mornings I shall come and tell you what he’s like.”
“Why, he’ll be like everyone else,” said Pen, “and if he thinks he’ll be able to do what he likes with us, he’ll find himself mistaken, that’s all!”
“Pen don’t know him yet,” said Bolton, “and he’s beginning to quarrel with him already.”
“Who doesn’t know him?” said Clifton, looking knowing; “I don’t know that he don’t!”
“What the devil do you mean?” asked Gripper.
“I know very well what I mean.”
“But we don’t.”
“Well, Pen has quarrelled with him before.”
“With the captain?”
“Yes, the dog-captain—it’s all one.”
The sailors looked at one another, afraid to say anything.
“Man or dog,” muttered Pen, “I declare that that animal will have his account one of these days.”
“Come, Clifton,” asked Bolton seriously, “you don’t mean to say that you believe the dog is the real captain?”
“Indeed I do,” answered Clifton with conviction. “If you noticed things like I do, you would have noticed what a queer beast it is.”
“Well, tell us what you’ve noticed.”
“Haven’t you noticed the way he walks on the poop with such an air of authority, looking up at the sails as if he were on watch?”
“That’s true enough,” added Gripper, “and one evening I actually found him with his paws on the paddle-wheel.”
“You don’t mean it!” said Bolton.
“And now what do you think he does but go for a walk on the icefields, minding neither the bears nor the cold?”
“That’s true enough,” said Bolton.
“Do you ever see that ‘ere animal, like an honest dog, seek men’s company, sneak about the kitchen, and set his eyes on Mr. Strong when’s he taking something good to the commander? Don’t you hear him in the night when he goes away two or three miles from the vessel, howling fit to make your blood run cold, as if it weren’t easy enough to feel that sensation in such a temperature as this? Again, have you ever seen him feed? He takes nothing from any one. His food is always untouched and unless a secret hand feeds him on board, I may say that he lives without eating, and if he’s not unearthly, I’m a fool!”
“Upon my word,” said Bell, the carpenter, who had heard all Clifton’s reasoning, “I shouldn’t be surprised if such was the case.” The other sailors were silenced.
“Well, at any rate, where’s the Forward going to?”
“I don’t know anything about it,” replied Bell. “Richard Shandon will receive the rest of his instructions in due time.”
“But from whom?”
“From whom?”
“Yes, how?” asked Bolton, becoming pressing.
“Now then, answer, Bell!” chimed in all the other sailors.
“By whom? how? Why, I don’t know,” said the carpenter, embarrassed in his turn.
“Why, by the dog-captain,” exclaimed Clifton. “He has written once already; why shouldn’t he again? If I only knew half of what that ‘ere animal knows, I shouldn’t be embarrassed at being First Lord of the Admiralty!”
“So then you stick to your opinion that the dog is the captain?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” said Pen in a hoarse voice, “if that ‘ere animal don’t want to turn up his toes in a dog’s skin, he’s only got to make haste and become a man, or I’m hanged if I don’t settle him.”
“What for?” asked Garry.
“Because I choose,” replied Pen brutally; “besides, it’s no business of any one.”
“Enough talking, my boys,” called out Mr. Johnson, interfering just in time, for the conversation was getting hot. “Get on with your work, and set up your saws quicker than that. We must clear the iceberg.”
“What! on a Friday?” replied Clifton, shrugging his shoulders. “You’ll see she won’t get over the Polar circle as easily as you think.”
The efforts of the crew were almost powerless during the whole day. The Forward could not separate the icefields even by going against them full speed, and they were obliged to anchor for the night. On Saturday the temperature lowered again under the influence of an easterly wind. The weather cleared up, and the eye could sweep over the white plains in the distance, which the reflection