“Hoot! of a’ the yarns and a’ the yarns! What’s wrang wi’ ye? Wad ye hae a Scot’s yarn wi’out plenty o’ twist tae’t?”
“Here, stop!” cried the doctor—“stop, man! You haven’t told us how you got frozen in here. Don’t say you found the North Pole?”
“No fear, doctor,” I said, as a cold wind seemed to fill the tent, and the place of the Scotch sailor was taken up by a thin, blue, filmy mist.
“But I wanted—” began the doctor.
“Don’t; pray don’t try to call him back, uncle,” said his nephew.
“But he’s told us nothing about his being frozen in,” said the doctor.
“And won’t now,” growled Binny Scudds. “I say, lads, do you know I like this here. We’ll have another one out to-morrow.”
“Let’s go outside and look,” said the doctor.
We did, and there was the square block of ice neatly open, leaving the shape of the Scotch sailor perfect, even to the place where his long, thin nose had been.