“Which I didn’t mean no harm,” whimpered Grumpey.
“Hold your tongue, sir! You’re not to answer; you’re not to wink even, when I speak. Take that, and that, and that.”
And Gruff whacked Grumpey all round the cage, and made him sit quietly in a corner with his consort Meg.
“As I was saying,” said the king, “when that impudent rascal interrupted me, we must be near home, and I’m going on shore to see how matters stand, as soon’s I get half a chance.”
“Oh, you’re never going to leave me!” cried Growley.
“My dear wife, never! How could such a thing enter your head? I’ll come back when—when—when I’ve had a look round.”
Gruff was as good as his word, and hardly had the boats been hauled up on the sea-foot of the iceberg than, in the stillness of the morning, the sound of a mighty plash was heard, followed by shouting and hallooing. Gruff had escaped, and was sturdily ploughing his way shorewards.
Gruff could have swum twenty miles through the sea, and been just as calm and self-possessed as he was when he hauled himself, hand over hand, up out of the water.
He shook himself, and gallons of spray flew in all directions. He shook himself again and again, and then he was ready for a romp.
He gave vent to a coughing roar that made the welkin ring—a roar that was echoed back from the ice-peaks above, and caused the very boats to shake.