“But there was no snowstorm last night, Watty.”
“Why, she saw it wi’ her ain een.”
“It was only the frozen breath,” said Steve, as he recalled his experience on the deck the night the bear was shot.
“Ah, weel, she dinna ken. Maybe she’s richt; but the cauld is chust awfu’. Tid she ken the McByle burnt her foots last nicht?”
“What, Andra? No.”
“Oh ay, she tid. She was sitting by the fire trying to blaw the ice oot o’ the pipes, for she couldna ket the pipes to skirl. She was sitting leuking on, when she smelt something oot. Chacobsen she says, ‘She’ll hae to mind, Andra, for she’s purning her foots’; and Andra she says tat Chacobsen should keep her chokes to hersel when she’s pusy wi’ the pipes; and chust then Chohannes lays holt upo’ her py the shouthers an’ pu’s her ower, and shows her the toes wass purning, and she tidn’t know.”
“Is this true, Watty?”
“She can chust co and leuk the chief’s foots an’ see. Why, the tins o’ meat all coom oot lumps o’ ice, and the soup freezes in the galley where the fire’s purning. She niver knew it could pe sae caud, or she’d ha’ stoppit at hame.”
Watty was quite right, for the cold struck in everywhere; and if it had not been for the great fire kept going in the engine furnace, the ship would have been unbearable. For the cold produced so utter an insensibility in the extremities that the doctor had to keep a very watchful eye over the men, several of whom were slightly frost-bitten.
But he was well backed up by the four Norwegians, who had learned in their own severe winters something of the power of the frost; and hence it was that, when the darkness set in entirely for their four months’ night, all were still in excellent health.