“‘A what?’ says I. ‘Wasn’t you cold?’
“‘I—I—I don’t know,’ says he, puzzled. ‘I was too busy t’ notice much.’
“‘Isn’t you hungry?’
“‘Why, Tumm,’ says he, in s’prise, ‘I believes I is, now that you mentions it. I believes I’d like a biscuit.’
“‘I wisht I had one t’ shy,’ says I.
“‘Don’t you be troubled,’ says he. ‘My arms is stuck. I couldn’t cotch it, anyhow.’
“‘Anyhow,’ says I, ‘I wisht I had one.’
“‘A grand night!’ says he. ‘For I got a idea, Tumm. They wasn’t nothin’ t’ disturb me all night long. I been all alone—an’ I been quiet. An’ I got a idea. I’ve gone an’ found out, Tumm,’ says he, ‘a law o’ life! Look you! Tumm,’ says he, ‘what you aboard that berg for? ’Tis because you had sense enough t’ get there. An’ why isn’t I aboard that berg? ’Tis because I didn’t have none o’ the on’y kind o’ sense that was needed in the mess last night. You’ll be picked up by the fleet,’ says he, ‘when the weather clears; an’ I’m bound out t’ sea on a speck o’ flat ice. This coast ain’t kind,’ says he. ‘No coast is kind. Men lives because they’re able for it; not because they’re coaxed to. An’ the on’y kind o’ men this coast lets live an’ breed is the kind she wants. The kind o’ men this coast puts up with ain’t weak, an’ they ain’t timid, an’ they don’t think. Them kind dies—just the way I ’low I got t’ die. They don’t live, Tumm, an’ they don’t breed.’
“‘What about you?’ says I.
“‘About me?’ says he.