De Long as he finished, passed the paper to the executive officer on his right, and ordered crisply,
“Chipp, have all the officers initial this now, and then publish it to the crew at quarters.” In a more conversational tone, he added to us, “I suppose, gentlemen, the order’s obvious enough. We’ve got to go and get some exercise or we’ll all stagnate in this darkness and make it easier for scurvy to get us. I’ve chosen the time when at least there’s a little twilight, even though the sun’s gone. Does anybody have any suggestions regarding exercises?”
The paper (together with Chipp’s pencil) passed back and forth across the table as one after another, starting with Chipp, we initialed the order, but no one had any comments to make. Once more I started to dish out the oatmeal. Danenhower, at the foot of the table, signing last, tossed the sheet of paper to Tong Sing, who shuffling across the wardroom, with an Oriental bow laid it down before the captain.
“Here, Chipp, take this to read to the crew,” said the skipper, starting to push it toward the exec, then on second thought, holding it an instant while his eyes glanced perfunctorily down the column of initials below his signature. A deep flush came over his cheeks as he read and he stiffened a little in his chair, but without looking up, he announced sternly,
“Mr. Collins, I see you failed to sign this. What’s the matter?”
There was an instant of tension, then,
“Collins isn’t here yet, captain,” put in Chipp swiftly. “He’s often late for breakfast. Thinks that having to take the observations on the midwatch is such a strain, he’s got to sleep in every morning to recuperate, I guess. I’d tell him later.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot that Mr. Collins is not usually with us for breakfast.” The skipper’s flush faded, he finished pushing the order to Chipp. “Very well, have him sign when he shows up. Now with respect to the exercise for the crew, Chipp, serve out a couple of footballs. They may want to play. And tell them that anyone who wishes can get permission to take a rifle and go hunting.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” Chipp folded the order, shoved it into his jacket. “But I’m not so keen on that hunting business, captain. Skulking around through all these broken hummocks, the men’ll be shooting each other or the dogs, thinking that they’re bears or seals or something. It always happens.”
“I won’t shed any tears over the dogs, anyway,” growled Dunbar. “I think shooting a couple of dozen of ’em ‘by mistake’ would be a good thing!”