CHAPTER XIV.
ESCAPE FROM THE ICEBEBG.
Though our apprehensions were great, our chief sufferings were from cold in that lofty and listless situation; yet our dread of impending dangers was so keen, our hope of a change so great, that even the oldest seamen on board never turned into their berths or bunks at night but with their clothes on, "to be ready," as they said, "to turn up with all standing at a moment's notice."
Hartly, who was rather scientific and was wont to expatiate upon the theory of storms, and so forth, endeavoured to account for the intensity of the frost, which I deemed a somewhat unnecessary illustration to us who were on the summit of an iceberg.
"The thermometer—" he would begin.
"Ugh! don't speak of the thermometer, Bob," said I, one day, when trembling in every fibre, as we endeavoured to tread to and fro on the sloping deck. "It is so cold now, that the atmosphere can never be colder!"
"So you think; but wait until—"
"When?"
"—we are a few degrees further north, perhaps in the centre of an ice-field, and then you will know what cold is! But the degree of it depends upon the power of the wind, after passing over snow-covered wastes, rather than the actual state of the mercury;—that was all I was about to remark."
I was too miserable to thank him for the information, but said:
"I do not think our vicinity to that other atrocious iceberg adds to the pleasantness of our temperature."