“I’ve never shot a wild beast,” he explained to Rory, “but, man, if I get the chance, I’ll have a try.”
“Bravo!” cried Rory, “and you’re sure to get the chance, you know.”
The ice was loose, although the weather was clear and very frosty. There was a heaving motion in the main pack that prevented the bergs from getting frozen together, but for all that the fleet kept well clear of it, for fear of getting beset. Patches of old seals might, it is true, have been found far in among the ice, but the risk was too great to run, so McBain kept to the outside edge, and the others followed his example.
Silas Grig was invited on board the Arrandoon; and proud he was when the captain told him that he could choose five-and-twenty of his best men, and superintend their preparations for going after the seals. The third mate might be one of the number, but neither Stevenson nor Mitchell was to be allowed to go, although McBain did not object to these officers, or even the engineers, having a day’s sport now and then.
It was a glorious morning—for Greenland—when Captain McBain called all hands, in order that Silas might choose the men who were to assist him in making his fortune. The sun was shining as brightly as ever it does in England, and there wasn’t too much wind to blow the cold through and through one. Either of the officers might have passed for old men, if white hairs make men look old, for their hair, whiskers, and moustachios were coated with hoar-frost ice. Our heroes had just finished breakfast, all of them having had a cold sea-bath to give them a glow before they sat down, and were now walking briskly up and down the quarter-deck, talking merrily and laughing.
The Scotia had her foreyard aback, and the Arrandoon had also stopped her way, and yonder was Silas in his boat coming rapidly over the rippling water towards the steamer, the skipper himself standing like a gondolier and steering with an oar in true whaler fashion.
“Now, lads,” cried Silas, when the men of the Arrandoon lay aft in obedience to orders. “You’re a fine lot, I must say; every man Jack o’ ye is better than the other; but I just want the men that have been to the country before. The men among ye that know a seal-club from a toastin’-fork, or a lowrie-tow from a bell-rope, just elevate a hand, will ye?”
(Lowrie-tow—the rope with which the men drag the skins to the ship’s side.)
No less than fifteen gloved hands were waved aloft. Silas was delighted, and did not take long to choose the remaining ten.
“You’ll go on the ice by twos, you know, men,” he continued, “and when one o’ ye tumbles into the water, why, the other’ll simply pull him out. Nothing easier.”