Well, just such another evening and night as had passed happened with us now. From time to time one or another would go on deck and come below and report the night a flying blackness. On the boatswain returning from one of these errands of observation the captain said:
'Does it clear at all?'
'Still as thick as muck, sir.'
'Any smell of ice about?'
'No, sir.'
I wondered to hear them talk of smelling ice in a snow storm as thick as froth, and said to the captain:
'Is ice to be smelt?'
He looked at me as though he had no mind to answer, to be even civil, then said sharply, 'Yes.'
My poor old nurse bristled like an angry hen at this behaviour, though she was still afraid of the mood upon him, yet being determined that I should get all the comfort possible out of any information the men could give, she turned upon the boatswain, whose bulky, oilskinned figure swung on frock-shaped leggings beside the stove, and said:
'Did you ever smell ice, Mr. Wall?'