Part 15 (1/2)

”But he's told us nothing about his being frozen in,” said the doctor.

”And won't now,” growled Binny Scudds. ”I say, lads, do you know I like this here. We'll have another one out to-morrow.”

”Let's go outside and look,” said the doctor.

We did, and there was the square block of ice neatly open, leaving the shape of the Scotch sailor perfect, even to the place where his long, thin nose had been.

”Well, turn in, lads,” said the doctor; ”we'll hunt out another to-morrow.”

”So we will,” said the lads. ”Who's afeard?”

”n.o.body!” growled Bostock. ”I say, doctor, what's the difference between these and ghosts?”

”These, my men,” began the doctor, ”are scientific specimens, while your ghost is but a foolish hallucination of the--Bless me, how rude!--the fellow's asleep.”

And the rest were soon in the same condition. Early the next morning, though, the doctor gave the order, ”Strike tents!” and we journeyed on a couple of miles along the edge of the great crater, looking curiously down the mysterious slope, at the pale, thin mist far below.

”I should like to go down,” said the doctor, looking longingly at the great hollow; ”but it won't do; there's the getting back, and I should be such a loss to the scientific world. Hallo! here's another.”

He pointed to the clearly-seen figure of a man underneath the ice, and the men, having now become familiar to such sights, set to laughingly, and were saved much trouble, for the ice cracked away from the figure, and after a few strokes they were able to lift the body out, and lay it in the sun, where, before many minutes had pa.s.sed, it made the motion of taking snuff, and then e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed--

”Declare to goodness!”

”Take a nip, mate,” said Abram Bostock, handing a tot of rum; but the figure waved it away.

”Who are you?” said the doctor. ”How did you get here? Don't say you've already discovered the North Pole.”

”Pole? North Pole?” said the figure, sleepily. ”I know nothing about the North Pole. No, indeed!”

”Well, who are you?” said the doctor. ”Come, give us a scientific account;” and the stranger began.

CHAPTER FIVE.

THE WELSH SAILOR'S YARN.

My name aboard s.h.i.+p is registered John Jones. Yes, indeed. Though, to confess exactly, I was born the son of Hugh Anwyl, miner, of the parish of Glanwern, in the county of Merioneth, and my father baptised me by his own name; so that John is Hugh, and Jones is Anwyl, indeed. I mention this at starting, to prevent my yarn being waterlogged before it reaches mid-ocean.

Well, mates, a beautiful spot is the village of Glanwern. The broad river Mawdach, which runs between the clefts of the mountains, d'ye see, and is overhung with silver birch on either side, separates us--that is, the Glanwernians, indeed--from the town of Barmouth.

It's a many year since these eyes beheld that familiar spot; yet, my lads, I never got becalmed, or down with a fever, or otherwise on my beam-ends, but what my thoughts turned to old Glanwern--for it's the brightest place, with the darkest memories, I ever knew.

Yes, indeed, I think I see it now. And you won't go for to suppose, because my eyes are all a-leak, like a brace of scuppers, that I've therefore lost my trim. After all, 'tain't Glanwern. It's what happened to me there, when I was a youth as gay as a poppy, with the hand of a man and the face of a girl.

That's the mischief, messmates.

'Twould have been happier for Hugh Anwyl if he'd been as ugly in those days as John Jones is at this moment; for, you see, my lads, when I was quite young, I got rather to like a girl called Gwen--Gwendoline that is; we, indeed, called her Gwen--Thomas. She was next-door neighbour to my old dad's cottage, and she'd a deuce of a knack of fondling on you without so much as touching a b.u.t.ton of your coat.

Yes, Gwen was one of the sort that act like magnets to a seaman's lips.