All hands were as merry that night as the winning team after a football match.
The wind had gone down, but the weather continued fairly mild, and there was not a sound to be heard on the pack.
On board, however, there were plenty of sounds--sounds of mirth and music in the galley. For Frank had gone forward with his fiddle, and a dance was the natural consequence.
Johnnie Shingles, and old mother Pen, were once more in glorious form, and their dancing brought down the house, and elicited rounds and rounds of applause.
Then dancing became general.
But the fatigues of the day had been very great, so that it is no wonder pipes were soon got out, and a wide and cheerful circle formed about the fire. Songs and yarns were now to be the order of the evening, and although it was not Saturday night it bore a very strong resemblance to it.
Just one song--written and sung by Frank himself, was to-night twice encored. As to its composition I say nothing, except that everything pleases the true-born British sailor that has got the ring of the sea about it.
FRANK'S SONG.
And now, my boys, sit round the fire,
And pass the glasses round;
Our troubles all we'll soon forget
When we are homeward bound.
Ah! many a danger we've defied,
We've weathered many a gale,
Nor stormiest seas, nor grinding ice,
Have ever made us quail!
Though bergs are still about us, boys,
Far north the billows sound,
And we'll welcome every breeze that blows,
When we are homeward bound.
Why should we mourn for pals we've lost,
Or let the tear-drops fall,
They sleep in peace, their sorrows o'er,
Beneath the snow's soft pall.
So crowd around the fire, dear lads,
And pass the glasses round;
Our friends are moored on heavenly shores--
And we are homeward bound.
CHAPTER XV.--THE ISLES OF DESOLATION.
If to be sailing northwards and east with a spanking breeze, and the great sea of southern ice in which, and on which, so many adventures had been had, was being homeward bound--then were our heroes homeward bound.