"You mean Simpson! Poor fellow, he is suffering dreadfully!"
"Do you fear for him?" asked Hatteras quickly.
"Yes, captain," answered the doctor.
"What do you fear?"
"A violent attack of scurvy. His legs swell already, and his gums are attacked; the poor fellow is lying under his blankets on the sledge, and every shock increases his pain. I pity him, but I can't do anything for him!"
"Poor Simpson!" said Bell.
"Perhaps we had better stop a day or two," said the doctor.
"Stop!" cried Hatteras, "when the lives of eighteen men depend upon our return! You know we have only enough provisions left for twenty days."
Neither the doctor nor Bell could answer that, and the sledge went on its way. In the evening they stopped at the foot of an ice-hill, out of which Bell soon cut a cavern; the travellers took refuge in it, and the doctor passed the night in nursing Simpson; he was a prey to the scurvy, and constant groans issued from his terrified lips.
"Ah, Mr. Clawbonny, I shall never get over it. I wish I was dead already."