DEEP SEA HUNTERS IN THE FROZEN SEAS
CHAPTER I
THE NARWHAL
Old Cap’n Pem was seated on the stringpiece of the wharf, his short black pipe gripped firmly in his mouth, and his wooden leg stretched stiffly before him like the stubby bowsprit of a coasting sloop. Beside him was his crony, Mike, another wooden-legged old mariner, for since a cruise the two had made to the Antarctic on the bark Hector, they had become inseparable companions.[1]
Although they were fast friends, they were ever chaffing each other and made it a point never to agree upon anything.
As Mike said, “Phwhat’s the use av talkin’ if yez don’t be afther arguin’? Shure an’ if yez agrees there’s not a bit more to be said.”
So, as usual, the two ancient mariners were in the midst of a discussion regarding a weather-beaten, disreputable, unkempt craft which was being towed across New Bedford harbor by a fussy little tug.
“Looks like they wuz a-comin’ to berth her here,” remarked Old Pem. “Reckon Dixon mus’ calc’late to fit the ol’ Narwhal out fer a cruise.”
Mike snorted. “B’gorra thin ’twill be a cruise to Davy Jones she’ll be afther takin’!” he exclaimed. “Shure, ’tis l’ave o’ yer sinses ye’re takin’, ye ol’ walrus! ’Tis to junk the schooner they do be towin’ av her here.”
“Walrus yerself!” retorted Cap’n Pem. “Ye’re a Irish lan’lubber if ye think the ol’ Narwhal’s only fit for junk. That there ol’ hooker’s a-goin’ for to fit out, I bet ye. An’, by heck! if she do, I’ll be blowed if I don’t ask Dixon to ship me erlong.”
Mike guffawed. “Glory be!” he cried. “An’ do yez be afther thinkin’ as Dixon’ll be fittin’ out av a floatin’ horspittle, ye ol’ cripple?”