He had come to me in the morning and asked for a two hours leave from the traces to take up work which he said was more scientific, namely, the study of the snow algæ which blossomed about us in rare profusion. As it was my custom to let my men out of harness, two at a time, to pursue their various specialties, I readily assented.
"Whinney, botanist and Dane, Egyptologist, on leave" was the order of the day.
They departed in opposite directions. Scientists in general avoid each other's company when making discoveries and these were no exception. It was the last Whinney saw of us for many weeks.
At seven-and-a-half-bells Dane came aboard and went below to file his data. Eight-bells sounded and still no Whinney. With my glasses I scanned the expanse about us. Far away on our starboard bow I glimpsed for an instant a moving black speck, lost it in the quivering lens, found it again and held it. Was it a bear? No, it was too black. A seal?—too tall!
In an instant I had given the order, "Cease mushing!"
"Swank, Wigmore, come with me. Triplett, you are in command."
We were off in a trice. As we drew near the distant figure I saw that it was indeed Whinney. But what was he doing?
He was tottering about in vague circles like a man distraught. Just as I came up to him he fell forward on his knees with a despairing cry, covering his face with his hands. Gently holding him by the wrists, I lifted him up; his arms dropped to his side and I knew the awful truth.
I mentioned, when Whinney left the ship, that he would see no more of us for many weeks. It was true, for though we could see him, the poor fellow could not see us.