Part 32 (2/2)

Carried away by his enthusiasm, with club in hand, he was engaging one of the largest sharks landed. The brute bent himself suddenly, then as suddenly straightened himself out, and away went boy Rory, like an arrow from a cross-bow, alighting in the very centre of the pool. For a moment every one was struck dumb with horror!

But Rory himself never lost his presence of mind. He remembered what Silas had said about splas.h.i.+ng and kicking to keep the sharks at bay.

Splash? I should think he did splash, and kick, too; indeed, kicking is hardly any name for his antics. He made a wheel of himself in the water. He seemed all arms and legs, and as for his head, it was just as often up as down, and _vice versa_; and all the while he was issuing orders to those on the bank--a word or two at a time, whenever his head happened to be uppermost, so that in the midst of the splas.h.i.+ng and spluttering his speech ran like this:

”Stand by”--(splutter, splutter)--”you fellows”--(splash, splash)--”up there”--(splutter) ”to pull quick”--(splash)--”as soon as!”--(splutter, splutter)--”catch the rope.”--(splash, splash)--”Now lads, now!”--(splutter, splutter, splash, splash, splutter, splutter, splash).

”Hurrah!” he cried, when he found himself on the ice. ”Hurrah! boys.

Cheer, boys, cheer. Safe to bank! Hurrah! and both my legs as sound as a bell, and never a toe missing from any single one of the two o' them.

Hurrah! Sure it's myself'll be Queen o' the May to-morrow. Hurrah!”

Yes, reader, the very next day was May-day, and on that day there are such doings on Greenland s.h.i.+ps as you never see in England.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

MAY-DAY IN THE ARCTIC REGIONS.

May-day! May-day in England! Surely, even to the minds of the youngest among us, these words bring some pleasant recollections.

”Ah! but,” I think I hear you complain, ”the May-days are not now what they were in the good old times; not the May-days we read of in books; not the May-days of merrie England. Where are the may-poles, with their circles of rosy-cheeked children dancing gleesomely around them? Where are the revels? Where are the games? Where is the little maiden persistent, who plagued her mother so lest she should forget to wake and call her early--

”'Because I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May?'

”And echo answers, 'Where?'”

These things, maiden included, have pa.s.sed away; they have fled like the fairies before the shriek of engine and rattle of railway wheels.

But May-day in England! Why, there is some pleasure and some joy left in it even yet. Summer comes with it, or promises it will soon be on the wing. Already in the meadows the cattle wade knee-deep in dewy gra.s.s, and cull sweet cowslips and daisies. A balmier air breathes over the land; the rising sun is rosy with hope; the lark springs from his nest among the tender corn, and mounts higher to sing than he has ever done before; flowers are blooming on every brae; the mossy banks are redolent of wild thyme; roses begin to peep coyly out in the hedgerows, and b.u.t.terflies spread their wings, as a sailor spreads a sail, and go fluttering away through the gladsome suns.h.i.+ne. And yonder--why, yonder _is_ a little maiden, and a very pretty one, too, though she isn't going to be Queen o' the May. No, but she is tripping along towards the glade, where the pink-blossomed hawthorn grows, and the yellow scented furze. She is going to--

Bathe her sweet face in May-morn dew, To make her look lovely all the year through.

She glances shyly around her, hoping that no one sees her. You and I, dear reader, are far too manly to stand and stare so.

Hey! presto! and the scene is changed.

May-day! May-day in Greenland! An illimitable ocean of ice, stretching away on all sides towards every point of the compa.s.s from where those s.h.i.+ps are lying beset. It looks like some measureless wold covered with the snows of midwinter. It is early morning, though the sun s.h.i.+nes brightly in a sky of cloudless blue, and, save for the footfall of the solitary watchman who paces the deck of the _Arrandoon_, there is not a sound to be heard, the stillness everywhere is as the stillness of death. An hour or two goes slowly by, then the watchman approaches the great bell that hangs amids.h.i.+ps.

Dong-dong! dong-dong! dong-dong! dong-dong! Eight bells. The men spring up from hatch and companion-way, and soon the decks are crowded and the crew are busy enough. They have discussed their breakfast long ago, and have since been hard at work on the May-day garland, which they now proceed to hoist on high, 'twixt fore and main masts. That garland is quite a work of art, and a very gay one, too. Not a man in the s.h.i.+p that has not contributed a few ribbons to aid in decorating it. Those ribbons had been kept for this special purpose, and were the last loving gifts of sisters, wives, or sweethearts ere the vessel set sail for the sea of ice. But there is more to be done than hoisting the garland.

The s.h.i.+p has to be dressed, and when this is finished, with her flags all floating around her, she will look as beautiful as a bride on her marriage morning.

None the worse for the ducking and fright of the previous day, Rory was first up on this particular May-day, and tubbed and dressed long before either Allan or Ralph was awake.

”Get up, Ray!” cried Rory, entering his friend's cabin.

”Ray, _Ray_, Ray!”

The last ”Ray” was shouted.

<script>