"I got him," he yelled, as the others came running and stumbling toward him. "Come on, and get your dead walrus!"
A cheer answered him. Not long after, with the shivering Sandy wrapped in what dry clothing they could spare, the boat, with its prize in tow, was sculled back to the ship where, as you may imagine, all hands had a thrilling tale to tell.
Sandy was made to gulp down boiling coffee and was hustled into a change of garments, while the others examined the body of the monster in whose slaying it might be said that they all had had a more or less active share. Tom felt not a little proud of his part as they gazed at the dead bull and admired his huge proportions. Soon Sandy joined them.
"Aweel, I'm thinking that we'll have a christening the noo," said he.
While the sailors were skinning the walrus and cutting out the four foot tusks, Sandy snatched up some strips of blubber and vanished. In a quarter of an hour or so he appeared with a cooking pan in his hands. Its contents was steaming and emitted a rank and fishy odor.
"What in the world have you got there?" Tom wanted to know.
"Give you three guesses," rejoined Sandy.
"It smells like sixty," observed Jack.
"Yes; keep to leeward of us, my lad," put in the captain.