“Declined? On a matter of duty? That seems queer. I’ll have to look into this.” Poking his head into the cabin outside, he called the veteran Dunbar into the workroom, then closed the door.
“What’s this, Dunbar, about your refusing to speak to Mr. Newcomb? He’s just asked me to ask you a question about a bird you shot, because he says you won’t speak to him.”
“Let him ask,” replied the ice-pilot. “I’ll speak to him any time about anything in the line of duty. But not on other things; I despise that little Yankee pedlar and he knows it!”
“Come now, Mr. Dunbar,” broke in the captain, “that’s no way to talk about a shipmate. Don’t lay too much stress on that little trading episode of Newcomb’s with those Indians at St. Michael’s; Mr. Newcomb did it only as a joke.”
“A joke, eh?” burst out the angered whaler. “And I suppose it’s a joke too, when he tries to write a letter home from Siberia, criticizing his superiors, saying that you, the captain, are a profane Catholic and Melville’s an atheist! A fine shipmate he is!”
De Long, at this unexpected personal turn, reddened, grew suddenly stern, gazed intently at Newcomb.
“What’s that, Mr. Newcomb? I’m a Catholic, right enough, but I think no man can truly say I’m a profane one. Did you write such a letter, sir?”
“I did not!” said Newcomb promptly.
“I didn’t say he wrote one,” countered Dunbar. “I merely said he tried to. There wasn’t any mail going, so I guess he didn’t. But the little fool’s too chummy with the men; it got out around the crew somehow that he was going to. That’s where I heard it.”
“Well, never mind about any scuttle butt rumors, Mr. Dunbar. Mr. Newcomb says he didn’t write such a letter, and that settles it. Now, Mr. Newcomb, I’ve noticed before your not talking to your fellow officers. Forget any such child’s play, and you’ll get along better.”