“Are you the cook?” said Harry.
“No, I’m the doctor.” (Greenlandmen usually call the cook “doctor.”)
“Well, doctor,” began Harry, “I want to tell you something. I’m in a very queer position—”
“Don’t bother me!” roared the grim old man, turning so fiercely round on him, ladle in hand, that Harry started and quaked with fear. “Don’t bother me,” he roared, “or I’ll pop you into the boiling copper, then you’ll be in a queerer position.”
Harry fell back. He did not know well what to do. So he went and sat down on a locker.
Presently past came a young sailor.
“I say, common sailor!” cried Harry.
The youth turned sharply round.
“I’m in a queer position.”
The youth pulled him clean off the locker and threw him straight across the deck, where he lay nearly stunned and doubled up.