“Do you know the Stemmatopus cristatus?” inquired Rory.
“What ship, my boy?” said Silas, with one hand behind his ear; “I didn’t catch the name o’ the craft.”
“It isn’t a ship,” said Rory, smiling; “it is a great black seal, with a thing like a kettle-pot over his head.”
“Oho!” cried Silas; “now I know. You mean the bladder-nose. Ay, lad! and a dangerous monster he is. A Greenland sailor would almost as soon face a bear as fight one of those brutes single-handed.”
“But the books tell us,” said Rory, “that, when surprised by the hunter, they weep copiously.”
“Bother such books!” said Silas. “What? a bladder-nose weep! Crocodile’s tears, then, lad! Why, gentlemen, this monstrous seal is more fierce than any other I know. When once he gets his back up and erects that kettle-pot o’ his, and turns round to see who is coming, stand clear, that’s what Silas says, for he means mischief, and he’s as willing to take his death as any terrier dog that ever barked. I would like to see some o’ those cyclopaedia-building chaps face to face with a healthy bladder-nose on a bit o’ bay ice. I think I know which o’ them would do the weeping part of the business.”
“Down south here,” said McBain—“if we can call it south—the seals have their young on the ice, don’t they?”
“You’re right, sir,” said Silas.
“And where do they go after that?”
“Away back to the far, far north,” said Silas. “We follow them up as far as we can. They live at the Pole.”