“Oh! ’tis a dismal thing,” began Grim again, “to dwell in solitude and cold! ’Tis very cold,” (Grim shuddered here tremendously) “and—and— what’s next?”
“Hunger,” said Fred.
“Hunger gnaws my vitals. My name is Blunderbore. ’Twere better had I been born a Blunderbuss, ’cause then I have gone off and dwelt in climes more shootable to my tender constitoosion. Ha! is that a bear I sees before me?”
“It’s not sees,” interrupted Fred.
At this moment a tremendous roar was heard, and O’Riley bounded from behind a top-sail which represented an iceberg, dressed from head to foot in the skin of a white bear which had been killed a few days before.
“Stop, O’Riley,” cried Fred, “you’re too soon, man. I have to come on first as an Esquimaux woman, and when Grim says to the woman he wishes he could see a bear, then you are to come.”
“Och! whirra, but me brains is confuged intirely wid it all,” said O’Riley, rising on his hind-legs and walking off with his tail, literally as well as figuratively, between his legs.
“Now, Buzzby, now; it’s your time—when you hear the word ‘misery’ come on and fight like a Trojan with the bears. The doctor will remind you.”
Fred was remarkably patient and painstaking, and his pupils, though not apt scholars, were willing, so that the morning rehearsal was gone through with fewer mistakes than might have been expected, and when the crew came back to dinner about mid-day, which, however, was as dark as midnight, their parts were sufficiently well got up, and nothing remained to be done but to arrange the stage and scenery for the evening’s entertainment—it having been resolved that the performance should commence after supper. The stage was at the after part of the cabin, and raised about a foot above the deck, and its management had been intrusted to the doctor, who, assisted by Peter Grim, transformed that portion of the ship into a scene so romantically beautiful that the first sight of it petrified the crew with surprise. But until the curtain should rise all arrangements were carefully concealed from everyone except the dramatis personae. Even the captain and officers were forbidden to peep behind the sail that formed a curtain to the stage, and this secrecy, besides being necessary, was extremely useful, inasmuch as it excited the curiosity of the men and afforded them food for converse and speculation, for a week before the great day arrived.
The longed-for hour came at last. The cabin tables having been removed, and rows of seats placed in front of the stage, the men were admitted from the deck, to which they had been expelled an hour previous in order not to impede preliminary arrangements. There was great joking, of course, as they took their seats and criticised the fittings up. David Mizzle was of opinion that the foot-lights “wos oncommon grand”, which was an unquestionable fact, for they consisted of six tin lamps filled with seal-oil, from the wicks of which rose a compound of yellow flame and smoke that had a singularly luminous effect. Amos Parr guessed that the curtain would be certain sure to get jammed at the first haul, and several of the others were convinced that O’Riley would stick his part in one way or another. However, an end was put to all remarks, and expectation raised on tiptoe by the ringing of a small hand-bell, and immediately thereafter a violent pulling at the curtain which concealed the stage; but the curtain remained immovable (they always do on such occasions), and a loud whispering was heard behind the scenes.