“I thought so,” said the doctor; “but after my experience of this afternoon I was afraid I might be wrong again. What do you say, Steve?”
“I think it’s as cold as we’ve had it, sir. We can see our breath here before this hot fire.”
“Look here!” exclaimed Captain Marsham, as he sat, pen in hand, examining the inkstand.
“What’s the matter? No ink?”
“Ink? Yes; but look here—frozen, and in this cabin!”
There was the fact; the ink-glass was partly full of splinters and scales of ice, while the bottom was like thick, melted black snow.
“Well, we can’t have it any colder than that, can we?” asked Steve; and then he started, for Skene suddenly sprang to his feet, his hair rose about his throat, and he uttered a low growl.
“What does he hear?” said the captain, after placing the ink to thaw.
“I know,” cried Steve, “though I didn’t hear it. Andra must have got out his pipes, and is playing what he calls a chune.”
“Very likely,” said the captain, turning the ink.