“I for one don’t mind it a bit,” said Allan. “It’ll do us all good; but won’t we be glad to see the jolly visage of old Sol again, when he peeps over the hills to see whether we are dead or alive!”
“I’m sure,” said Rory, “that I will enjoy the fun immensely.”
“What fun?” asked Ralph.
“Why, the new sensation,” replied Rory; “a winter at the Pole.”
“You’re not quite there yet,” said Ralph; “but as for me, I think I’ll enjoy it too, though of course winter in London would be more lively. Why, what is that green-looking stuff in those glasses, doctor?”
“That’s your dram,” said Sandy.
“Why it’s lime-juice,” cried Rory, tasting his glass and making a face.
“So it is,” said Ralph. “Where are the sugar-plums, doctor?”
“Yes,” cried Rory; “where are the plums? Oh!” he continued, “I have it—a drop of Silas Grig’s green ginger, steward, quick.”
And every day throughout the winter, when our heroes swallowed their dose of lime-juice, they were allowed a tiny drop of green ginger to put away the taste, and as they sipped it, they never failed to think and talk of honest Silas.