I went over. It was forty below zero, and, I thought, a devil of a temperature in which to get hauled up over thermometers.
“Last night, chief,” said the captain, starting mildly enough, “in a conversation with Mr. Collins, he reported you to me for plaguing him. I asked him what the trouble was, and he said that you were always cracking jokes and singing Irish songs to make game of him.”
“What?” I mumbled half to myself, completely flabbergasted. “Songs, in addition to thermometers?”
But the captain, oblivious of my interruption, finished decisively,
“Melville, you had better not sing any more.”
“Why, captain!” I said in astonishment. “I don’t think I should be muzzled in this manner. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t sing a song if I want to. It’s my only relaxation. My songs don’t disturb anybody.”
“Collins says your Irish songs disturb him. Sing something else,” ordered the captain flatly.
“But, captain, I can’t. I don’t know any other songs.”
“Well, sing psalms then.”
“Psalms? Me?” I protested. “Never! I didn’t ship as a psalm singer!”