“Weel, no, mon, but I must alloo I was a wee bit shaken.”
* * * * *
Slap-dash was early to the hill next morning. The weather was as bright and fine as if blizzard had never been blowing.
When he came down his somewhat dirty face was sparkling with joy.
“As far as I can see, sah, top ob dis valley, she is one big big, long long, sea ob snow.”
This was indeed glorious news.
And this tableland, when they got up to it, was found to stretch on for probably twenty miles or more, and Slap-dash was not likely to make a mistake in a matter of this kind.
Merrily they marched on this morning; Ingomar and the rest of the white men—Eskimos are not black, however, when washed—beguiling the way with cheerful conversation and with many a song, in the choruses of which even Dumpty and the Yaks joined.
This was a little Republic, a Republic on the march; and although every respect was paid by the men to their officers and superiors, there was far more real communion than on ordinary occasions; so, on the road, or squatting around in a circle of an evening, the simple sailors were invited to sing and yarn, and they cheerfully responded.
MacDonald was not only the best yarn-spinner but the best singer in the pack. Scottish songs, of course; and what nation has sweeter or more heroic melodies than green Caledonia? But it was strange to hear the rough doric voice raised here in this wild land of snow and ice, whether in love lilts, such as “Annie Laurie,” or in those more than martial songs, which so often led the sons of the heather to death or victory in far-off foreign lands.