One fine morning, as they were paddling cheerfully along in the neighbourhood of Cape Jones, it struck Mr Stanley that he might prove the correctness of his sextant and other instruments before entering upon the country which to most of the party was terra incognita. This was the more necessary that he could not depend on the guidance of Oostesimow and Ma-Istequan, they having travelled only once, long ago, through part of the country, while the latter part of it was totally unknown to them. It was one of those beautiful mornings that are peculiar to arctic regions, when the air is inexpressibly still, and all inanimate nature seems hushed in profound repose—a repose which is rather rendered more effective than otherwise by the plaintive cries of wild-fowl or the occasional puffing of a whale. There was a peculiar brilliancy, too, in the atmosphere, caused by the presence of so many fields and hummocks of white ice, looming fantastically through a thin, dry, gauze-like haze, which, while it did not dim the brightness of the solar rays, lent an additional charm to every object by shrouding it in a veil of mystery.
On passing the point the men ceased rowing, and proceeded to solace themselves with a five-minutes’ pipe—an indulgence which voyageurs always claim as their due after a long spell at the oars or paddles.
“Put ashore here, Massan,” said Stanley, turning to the guide; “I shall take an observation, if possible, and you can set the men to hunt for eggs. We shall want them, as the larder is rather low just now.”
Massan muttered assent, and, shouting to the other canoe to put ashore, ran alongside the rocks.
“You’d better hail the little canoe,” said Stanley, as he landed. “I shall want Mr Morton to assist me.”
Massan stepped upon an elevated rock, and, shading his eyes with his hands, looked earnestly ahead where he observed the little canoe almost beyond vision, and just going to double a point of land. Transferring his hands to his mouth, he used them as a trumpet, and gave forth a shout the like of which had never startled the echoes of the place before.
“It’s no use, sir,” said Massan; “he’s past hearin’. I’m afeerd that they’re off in the direction o’ the White Bear Hills, in hopes o’ gittin’ a shot.”
“Try again, Massan,” urged Stanley; “raise your pipe a little higher. Perhaps it will reach them.”
Massan shook his head. “Try it, Bryan,” he said, turning to the Irishman, who was sitting on a rock leisurely filling his short, black pipe.
“Is it to halloo ye want me?” replied Bryan, rising. “Shure the great gun of Athlone itself could niver hold a candle to ye, Massan, at yellin’; but I’ll try, anyhow;” and putting his hands to his mouth he gave forth a roar compared to which Massan’s was nothing. There was a sort of crack in the tone of it, however, that was so irresistibly ridiculous that the whole party burst incontinently into a fit of laughter. Loud though it was, it failed to reach the ears of those in the little canoe, which in a few seconds doubled the point and disappeared.