“Shouldn’t wonder if we found a nigger friz-up here, mates,” said Binny Scudds.
“Or a Chine-hee,” said one of the men.
“Well, all I can say,” exclaimed Bostock, “is this here, I don’t want to be made into a scientific speciment.”
“Here y’are!” shouted one of the men. “Here’s one on ’em!”
“Get out!” said Binny Scudds, who had run to the face of a perpendicular mass of ice, where the man stood with his pick. “That ain’t one!”
“Tell yer it is,” said the man. “That’s the ’airs of his ’ead sticking out;” and he pointed to what appeared to be dark threads in the white, opaque ice.
“Tell you, he wouldn’t be standing up,” said Binny Scudds.
“Why not, if he was frozen so, my men?” said the doctor. “Yes; that’s a specimen. This ice has been heaved up.”
“Shall we fetch him out with powder,” said Bostock.
“Dear me, no!” said the doctor. “Look! that ice is laminated. Try driving in wedges.”