“Bless you, Magnus! Give us your hand, my old sea-dad. You always gave me comfort, even when I was a boy in the wilds of Spitzbergen. You taught me to splice, and reef, and steer. Bless you, Magnus! I couldn’t have sailed without you.”
“But stay, my son, stay,” continued this weird little man, holding up a warning finger; “those rushing winds—”
“Yes, Magnus?”
“They will bring danger on their wings.”
“I’ll welcome it, Magnus,” laughed McBain.
“Those rushing winds will tear down on us, hurricane-high, tempest-strong. The great bergs, impelled by force of wind and might of wave, will dash each other to atoms.”
“All the better for us, Daddy Magnus,” said the captain.
“Were your voice as loud as cannon’s roar you will be as one dumb amid the turmoil.”
“Then I’ll steer by signs,” said McBain.
“Should our ship escape destruction, we will be enveloped by fogs, encircled by a darkness that will be felt.”