“A good beginning, though a few hours too soon, my lads. We’ve reached the shortest day, and it’s time to be active once more. Quick! wrap up; coats on, and mitts. We’ll go and see what the ice avalanche has done.”
The men returned to their quarters, but it was in a dull, spiritless way, which Steve could not help noticing, but he said nothing then.
“Take guns, sir?” he asked, as they reached the cabin.
“We may as well, my lad, though I don’t think there will be anything to shoot.”
Steve was ready first, and went out on deck, to see the men coming up from the forecastle, looking big and uncouth in their hooded fur coats and mittens; but no one spoke as they stood there in the gloom waiting for orders. Steve peered about, but could not see the face he sought, and he turned to Hamish, who was close at hand.
“Where’s Watty?” he said.
“In her bunk, sir,” said the man surlily.
“In his bunk? Why didn’t you rouse him up? It will do him good to come. Andra isn’t here, either. He ought to try and walk as far as we’re going to-day.”
“Na, let them be, sir,” said the man. “Better let the puir chiels dee in peace.”
“For shame!” cried Steve hotly; “what do you mean by talking about dying in peace?”