“In an emergency, Nindemann, a watch officer may turn over the deck and leave. But a polar bear is not an emergency. Don’t do it again. That’s all now. Go below.”
For an instant, hoping to explain further, the quartermaster hesitated but one glance into De Long’s quiet blue eyes changed his mind.
“Aye, aye, sir.” He gripped his rifle, shuffled forward past his shipmates.
By this time, Collins and Newcomb were coming up the gangway. The knot of sailors, disappointed in the expected scene over Nindemann, lost interest and scattered. If the captain would not blow up a seaman for a serious breach of discipline, he would hardly lay out an officer for less. And in this they were correct. De Long went below before the two hunters reached the side; they reported their return to Dunbar, and had not Danenhower stopped them might have laid below unhindered. But the navigator, curious as to events, laid a brawny arm on little Newcomb’s shoulder, asked the naturalist banteringly,
“Well, ‘Bugs,’ how did you make out with that specimen of Ursus Polaris?”
“Ursus Polaris? There is no such specimen. Thalassarctus maritimus, you mean,” blandly replied Newcomb. “I regret to say the specimen outfooted us, and neither the quartermaster, the meteorologist, nor I unfortunately got in a shot.”
“Too bad,” agreed Danenhower, “but what by the way is a thalassa—What did you say?”
“Thalassarctus maritimus,” repeated Newcomb. “What the untutored call a polar bear or in Latin, Ursus Polaris. That’s all wrong. It’s an ice bear or, technically, a thalassarctus maritimus.”
“Well, well!” grinned Danenhower, “marvellous how a bear weighted down with a name like that can run, isn’t it? By the way, ‘Bugs,’ when you’ve stowed your rifle, you’ll have a chance to show off your Latin to the skipper. He wants to see you in his cabin.” He turned from Newcomb to the panting meteorologist. “And a little later he’d like to see you too, Collins.”
“Me? About what?” demanded Collins sharply.