As he reached the caldron he found Jakobsen, with his sleeves rolled above his brawny elbows, busily at work superintending the rendering down, and he looked up and gave the boy a friendly nod.
“Well, opposition cook!” cried Steve, laughing; “breakfast ready? What is it, bear-soup?”
“No, sir,” said the man seriously, “only the fat.”
“Ah, well, I won’t taste that,” said Steve; and he went on to where his comrades Andersen and Petersen were busy over the great outstretched bear’s skin, which they were cleaning and dressing so that it should be perfectly preserved. Johannes was seated on a stool with a keg between his legs, the little tub being turned up to form a table, on which rested the great grinning head of the slain animal, whose skull he was carefully cleaning from every particle of flesh and fat, throwing the scraps overboard to the great cloud of sea-birds which wheeled and darted and pounced down upon every morsel thrown into the sea.
“Ugh! what a disgusting job!” said Steve.
“Think so, sir? Oh no, it’s clean enough—quite fresh.” And he threw over a handful of bear-flesh, after cutting it in small pieces.
“Why did you do that?” asked Steve.
“To give all the birds a chance.”
“Oh! I say, how hungry they seem!”
“Yes, they do, sir. I often wonder how they live at all in the stormy times.”