They were walking over a floe of thick bay ice as the mate told his story. No sooner had he spoken the last words than—
“Down, men, down!” he cried; “the ice is rising ahead.”
They followed the mate’s advice, and threw themselves on their faces.
In two places the ice was heaving and rising. Then all at once it gave way, with a noise like the firing of great guns, and up from the depths of the dark sea rose two gigantic forms, with wild eyes and yard-long tusks, and of such fearful aspect that Frank’s heart almost stood still with dread.
“By George!” cried Chisholm, “this is playing at Jack in the box with a vengeance.”
Bang, bang, bang went the rifles, and down sank the apparitions, leaving the broken ice all red with blood.
“They are only wounded,” said the mate; “they’ll have revenge if it is a month hence, depend on that.”
The Grampus, sealing intent, steamed farther and farther north, and the nearer to the pole they got, the heavier grew the ice. There was shooting every day now for three months and more—seals and bears, and sometimes a fox—and, when there was nothing else to go for, they brought down gulls for their feathers, and looms for the sake of fresh meat. Sometimes they were rewarded by the sight of the lonely narwhal, or giant unicorn of the sea—a creature which always makes direct for a boat as soon as it spies one, and has been known to attack and sink a whaler or gig.
They were after the looms one day, Chisholm and Frank being as usual in one boat, with the first mate steering.
