In the afternoon of the same day our ears were assailed by a hideous braying from below. Hurliguerly remarked that as there were no asses to treat us to the concert, it must be given by penguins. Hitherto these countless dwellers in the polar regions had not thought proper to accompany us on our moving island; we had not seen even one, either at the foot of the iceberg or on the drifting packs. There could be no doubt that they were there in thousands, for the music was unmistakably that of a multitude of performers. Now those birds frequent by choice the edges of the coasts of islands and continents in high latitudes, or the ice-fields in their neighbourhood. Was not their presence an indication that land was near?
I asked Captain Len Guy what he thought of the presence of these birds.
“I think what you think, Mr. Jeorling,” he replied. “Since we have been drifting, none of them have taken refuge on the iceberg, and here they are now in crowds, if we may judge by their deafening cries. From whence do they come? No doubt from land, which is probably near.”
“Is this West’s opinion?”
“Yes, Mr. Jeorling, and you know he is not given to vain imaginations.”
“Certainly not.”
“And then another thing has struck both him and me, which has apparently escaped your attention. It is that the braying of the penguins is mingled with a sound like the lowing of cattle. Listen and you will readily distinguish it.”
I listened, and, sure enough, the orchestra was more full than I had supposed.
“I hear the lowing plainly,” I said; “there are, then, seals and walrus also in the sea at the base.”
“That is certain, Mr. Jeorling, and I conclude from the fact that those animals—both birds and mammals—very rare since we left Tsalal Island, frequent the waters into which the currents have carried us.”