Part 39 (1/2)

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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p's sc.r.a.ps, 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 circ.u.mstance 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 b.u.mper s.h.i.+p, but a clean and wholesome sweet s.h.i.+p.”

”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 sc.r.a.ped 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 la.s.sie of yours that you have for a figure-head.”

”Glorious! glorious!” cried Silas Grig.

”Why, my own wife won't know the s.h.i.+p. 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 la.s.sie's tartan. She came to the country a Gordon, she shall return a McGregor.”