“I tell you I didn’t slam any door! Mr. Collins, do you mean to say to me that I lie?”
What might have happened, I don’t know. I scrambled up the ladder, thrust myself between the two. From the glint in Ambler’s eyes, it looked to me like bloodshed next.
“Hold on, gentlemen! Please!” I begged. “I know all about this. The Jack-of-the-dust slammed that door; Dr. Ambler didn’t even notice it. Now look here, Collins! If you’d been faster on your feet, you’d have seen who did it yourself; and if you weren’t so damned fast at taking offense at every little thing, you’d have rolled over and gone to sleep again without bothering about a little noise. Now apologize to the doctor and turn in again till you’ve slept off that grouch!”
Collins, very red in the face at having made a fool of himself, mumbled out some lame apology, which Ambler accepted without comment and departed to take the morning observations. I went below to continue my interrupted reading, but Collins, instead of turning in, moped about all day, no doubt trying to justify to himself his ridiculous conduct; very possibly wondering also whether I had not fabricated from the whole cloth that yarn about the Jack-of-the-dust to put him in a hole and figuring how he might reciprocate.
At any rate, at dinner that evening, he startled me by breaking his usual mealtime reticence and remarking as I was hacking away at the salt beef,
“There’s old Melville, getting gray and bald over his confinement in the ice.”
“No, Collins,” I shot back, “my hair’s no grayer than yours. And as for my baldness, I’ve suffered neither heat nor cold from it since I’ve been in the Arctic, but I will admit that if instead of being marooned here, we were off Saint Patrick’s Land where we could all be hunting now, probably I’d have a better time.”
“So?” said Collins, instantly offended. “That settles it! When a man starts to get personal in his remarks, I don’t have anything more to say.”
“Personal? Who’s getting personal?” I asked, perplexed, for if Collins’ commenting on my baldness was not personal, what was? Then recalling my statement, I blushed myself, for in my haste in getting in my repartee I realized suddenly that my tongue had slipped. “Did I say Saint Patrick’s Land, Collins? I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I meant Prince Patrick’s Land, off to the northeast of here.”
“Oh, no, Melville; I’m not a fool!” Collins blazed out, obviously certain now that I was altogether too facile in explaining away embarrassing situations. “When you said Saint Patrick’s Land, you meant Saint Patrick’s Land! And as for my gray hairs, I got them in honorable service you’re completely ignorant of!”