And though the meteorologist choked with rage, he said no more. Simpkins and the captain consulted.
"We're right in the track of steamers more or less," said Captain Prowse, "and it bein' so damp we can hang out without much drink for a day or so. And biscuit we 'ave plenty."
Simpkins nodded.
"Yes, sir, but this 'ere's a sulky useless lot, sir."
"So they are," said Prowse, "but they'll 'ave to shape themselves as I bid 'em. The first crooked word and there'll be a man of science missing out of this bright gal-acksy of talent. I don't care where I am, but there I'll be captain. I don't care if they was my owners, I'd run 'em all the same. They ain't passengers no more, they're my crew."
He took a drink out of a flask and sank back in the stern-sheets.
"I want you men to keep your eyes skinned," he said presently. "Which of you is the astronomer?"
"I am," answered the bow oar, who was a long, thin man, in a wideawake and spectacles.
"Then keep a bright look-out or you'll see stars," said Prowse. "And while I'm on it, I want you jossers to know that you ain't passengers no more, but a boat's crew, and my boat's crew, and you'll have to look lively when I sing out. So the sooner we get a bit farther south the better it will be. That will do."
And muttering that he meant being captain whether he was on an ice-floe or a mud-barge, he fell asleep and snored.