“Here you are, sir. Follow me!” This from one of the men, who had brought a wooden, rope-handled bucket of steaming water.
Ingomar was conducted to the half-deck, and, when he emerged, but for his romantic dress of skins, no one would have known him.
The skin, even of his hands, was now as white as a lady’s, and his complexion perfect.
And his every action, movement, and sentence were those of a well-bred man of the world.
He looked about ten years younger than he did when he stepped on board.
“By the way, Captain—eh——”
“Mayne Brace,” said Charlie.
“Captain Mayne Brace, I have been dreaming for weeks in my tent, far away over the hills yonder, that I was sailing southwards in a British barque. The fact is, sir, though life in these regions may have a spice of romance about it, one gets tired after a time of the winter’s darkness; and a diet of dried fish, seal-mutton, and whale-blubber becomes irksome at last, even if a bear-steak is now and then added to the menu.
“Do you know, sir,” he added, interrupting himself, “that if your tailor could make me a serge suit of some sort, and if I had my hair cut, I’d really have the audacity to ask you to grant me a passage back to temperate regions with you?”
“We will be delighted, Ingomar,” from the captain.