Chapter Nineteen.
“Silas Grig, His Yarn”—The White Whale—Afloat on an Iceberg—A Dreary Journey—Bear Adventures—“The Seals! The Seals!”
There was only one subject in the whole world that Silas Grig was thoroughly conversant with, and that was the manners and customs of his friends the seals. Had you started talking upon either politics or science, or the state of Europe or Ireland, Silas would have become silent at once. He would have retired within himself; his soul, so to speak, would have gone indoors, and not come out again until you had done. Such was Silas; and he confessed frankly that he had never sung a song nor made a speech in his lifetime. He was a perfect enthusiast while talking about the natural family Phocidae. No naturalist in the world knew half so much about them as Silas. On the evening of the day in which he had chosen his men from the crew of the Arrandoon, he was pronounced by both Ralph and Rory to be in fine form. He was full of anecdote, and even tales of adventure, so our heroes allowed him to talk, and indeed encouraged him to do so.
“What!” he cried, his honest, fear-nothing face lighting up with smiles as he eyed Rory across the table after dinner. “Spin you a yarn, d’ye say? ah! boy, and you’ll excuse me calling ye a boy. Silas never could tell a story, and I don’t suppose he ever had an adventure as signified much to you in his life.”
“Never mind,” insisted Rory, “you tell us something, and I’ll play you that old tune you so dearly love.”
“Ah! but,” said Silas, “if my matie were only here; now you wouldn’t think, gentlemen,”—here he glanced round the table as seriously as if contradiction were most unlikely—“you wouldn’t think that a fellow like that, with such an ugly chunk of a head, had any sentiment; but he has, though, and he owns the prettiest wife and the smartest family in all Peterhead.”
“Look here,” cried Rory, “be quiet about your matie. Sure this is what we’re waiting for.”
He exhibited the doctor’s slate as he spoke, and on the back thereof, behold! in large letters, the words,—
“Silas Grig, His Yarn.”
Silas laughed till his sides ached, his eyes watered, the chair creaked, and the rafters rang. It was a pleasant sight to see. After this he lit up a huge meerschaum pipe, “hoping there was no offence,” cleared his throat, turning his face upwards at the pendent compass, as if seeking help there. Then he began,—