“Goold!” echoed O’Riley in a tone of contempt; “faix, I niver thought so little o’ goold before, let me tell ye. Goold can buy many a thing, it can, but it can’t buy sunshine. Hallo! what’s this!”
O’Riley accompanied the question with a sudden snatch of his hand.
“Look here, Buzzby! Have a care, now! jist watch the opening o’ my fist.”
“Wot is it?” enquired Buzzby, approaching, and looking earnestly at his comrade’s clenched hand with some curiosity.
“There he comes! Now, then; not so fast, ye spalpeen!”
As he spoke, a small fly, which had been captured, crept out from between his fingers, and sought to escape. It was the first that had visited these frozen regions for many, many months, and the whole crew were summoned on deck to meet it, as if it were an old and valued friend.
“Let it go, poor thing?” cried half a dozen of the men, gazing at the little prisoner with a degree of interest that cannot be thoroughly understood by those who have not passed through experiences similar to those of our Arctic voyagers.
“Ay, don’t hurt it, poor thing! You’re squeezin’ it too hard!” cried Amos Parr.
“Squaazing it! no, then, I’m not. Go, avic, an’ me blessin’ go wid ye.”
The big, rough hand opened, and the tiny insect, spreading its gossamer wings, buzzed away into the bright atmosphere, where it was soon lost to view.