“Pancake ice,” commented the Captain. “We’ll get all we want of that, pretty soon.”
“Not exactly pancake ice, Captain,” I observed respectfully. “A combination of salt-water pancake with splinters of fresh-water, barrier ice. Those clear spots are the fresh-water formation.”
Captain Biffer regarded me a moment doubtfully. Then he gave an order to some sailors.
“Get up a piece of that ice!” he growled, “I want to look at it.”
A man was lowered over the side, and hacked off a fragment which was hauled on board. The Captain chipped out pieces of the white and the clear ice and tasted of them. Then he flung them overboard.
“You win!” he laughed, “I’m out of it, down here.”
“What’s that brown color on it?” asked Edith Gale.
“Dirt,” said the Captain. “Comes from the shore.”
“Captain,” I objected, “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to differ with you again.”
“What is it, then, if it ain’t dirt?” he grumbled.