With that they were quieted. But again, when I spoke of the log book and said that the ship had been enclosed in the ice for thirteen years, even the lieutenant seemed to disbelieve me.
"Thirteen years!" he exclaimed. "Come now, come, draw it mild, my lad, that won't do at all, you've mistaken the writing somehow. Show us the log book and then we'll believe it."
"I'm sure I did not mistake, sir," I protested, "for the writing was as plain as plain could be,
"'New Year's Day, 1831. The ice still closing in on us. Opened last bag of biscuits. Murray died this morning.'
"These were the very words, and I'll show you them if--"
Here I felt a trembling hand clasped on my knee, and Peter asked excitedly, "What name did you say? Was it Murray?"
"Murray! yes, that was the man who died on New Year's Day."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Peter. "Tell me, what was the name of the ship? Did you not find that out?"
"Why, yes, Peter, I saw her name. She was called the Pilgrim--of Bristol."
Peter became excited, and a strange pallor came over his face.