'Sixty-one, sighting Elephant Island. Nothing to the south'ard of it,' shouted back the man in the bear-like coat.
'Been off the South Orkneys?' cried Cliffe.
'Just caught a sight of the north-west point of Coronation Island? 'Twas blowing hard, and the weather coming on thick,' answered the other.
The two vessels rolled at a distance apart not wider than a wide street: each man's voice rang through the wind in distinct syllables spite of the splashing and groaning sounds and the howling and whistling aloft when the brig's spars sheared to windward on the slope of the sea. When I heard the whaleman speak of Coronation Island, I thought my heart had stopped. I wanted to speak, but could not.
'How was the ice?' bawled Cliffe.
'Plentiful to the south'ard and west'ard.'
'How was the ice about the New Orkneys?'
'More'n ye'll want if you're bound there,' was the answer.
'D'ye know that land?'
'Ay' was the answer that was accompanied by a significant ironical flourish of the arm.