“Not so very low,” said Rory; “not under twenty-nine degrees.”
“But concave at the top?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, well,” said McBain, “content yourselves, boys, for I think we’ll have days of it. I for one don’t want to see much more of the ice while this blow lasts. But what a splendid fire you have! Steward, mind you put on the guard last thing to-night.”
“Why the guard?” asked Rory.
“Because,” explained McBain, “I feel certain that many a good ship has been burned at sea by the fire falling out of the grate; a wave or a piece of ice hits her on the bows, the fire flies out of the stove, no one is below, and so, and so—”
“Yes,” said Ralph, “that is very likely, and pray don’t let us speak of anything very dreadful to-night. List! how the wind roars, to be sure! But to change the subject—Peter.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“Is supper ready?”
“Very nearly, sir.”