The Steward [in relieved tones—seeing who it is]. Oh, 'tis you, is it? What're ye shiverin' 'bout? Stay by the stove where ye belong and ye'll find no need of chatterin'.
Ben. It's c-c-cold. [Trying to control his chattering teeth—derisively.] Who d'ye think it were—the Old Man?
The Steward [makes a threatening move—Ben shrinks away]. None o' your lip, young un, or I'll learn ye. [More kindly.] Where was it ye've been all o' the time—the fo'c's'tle?
Ben. Yes.
The Steward. Let the Old Man see ye up for'ard monkeyshinin' with the hands and ye'll get a hidin' ye'll not forget in a hurry.
Ben. Aw, he don't see nothin'. [A trace of awe in his tones—he glances upward.] He jest walks up and down like he didn't notice nobody—and stares at the ice to the no'the'ard.
The Steward [the same tone of awe creeping into his voice]. He's always starin' at the ice. [In a sudden rage, shaking his fist at the skylight.] Ice, ice, ice! Damn him and damn the ice! Holdin' us in for nigh on a year—nothin' to see but ice—stuck in it like a fly in molasses!
Ben [apprehensively]. Ssshh! He'll hear ye.
The Steward [raging]. Aye, damn, and damn the Arctic seas, and damn this rotten whalin' ship of his, and damn me for a fool to ever ship on it! [Subsiding as if realizing the uselessness of this outburst—shaking his head—slowly, with deep conviction.] He's a hard man—as hard a man as ever sailed the seas.
Ben [solemnly]. Aye.