Seven Frozen Sailors Part 15

"But he's told us nothing about his being frozen in," said the doctor.

"And won't now," growled Binny Scudds. "I say, lads, do you know I like this here. We'll have another one out to-morrow."

"Let's go outside and look," said the doctor.

We did, and there was the square block of ice neatly open, leaving the shape of the Scotch sailor perfect, even to the place where his long, thin nose had been.

"Well, turn in, lads," said the doctor; "we'll hunt out another to-morrow."

"So we will," said the lads. "Who's afeard?"

"n.o.body!" growled Bostock. "I say, doctor, what's the difference between these and ghosts?"

"These, my men," began the doctor, "are scientific specimens, while your ghost is but a foolish hallucination of the--Bless me, how rude!--the fellow's asleep."

And the rest were soon in the same condition. Early the next morning, though, the doctor gave the order, "Strike tents!" and we journeyed on a couple of miles along the edge of the great crater, looking curiously down the mysterious slope, at the pale, thin mist far below.

"I should like to go down," said the doctor, looking longingly at the great hollow; "but it won't do; there's the getting back, and I should be such a loss to the scientific world. Hallo! here's another."

He pointed to the clearly-seen figure of a man underneath the ice, and the men, having now become familiar to such sights, set to laughingly, and were saved much trouble, for the ice cracked away from the figure, and after a few strokes they were able to lift the body out, and lay it in the sun, where, before many minutes had pa.s.sed, it made the motion of taking snuff, and then e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed--

"Declare to goodness!"

"Take a nip, mate," said Abram Bostock, handing a tot of rum; but the figure waved it away.

"Who are you?" said the doctor. "How did you get here? Don't say you've already discovered the North Pole."

"Pole? North Pole?" said the figure, sleepily. "I know nothing about the North Pole. No, indeed!"

"Well, who are you?" said the doctor. "Come, give us a scientific account;" and the stranger began.

CHAPTER FIVE.

THE WELSH SAILOR'S YARN.

My name aboard s.h.i.+p is registered John Jones. Yes, indeed. Though, to confess exactly, I was born the son of Hugh Anwyl, miner, of the parish of Glanwern, in the county of Merioneth, and my father baptised me by his own name; so that John is Hugh, and Jones is Anwyl, indeed. I mention this at starting, to prevent my yarn being waterlogged before it reaches mid-ocean.

Well, mates, a beautiful spot is the village of Glanwern. The broad river Mawdach, which runs between the clefts of the mountains, d'ye see, and is overhung with silver birch on either side, separates us--that is, the Glanwernians, indeed--from the town of Barmouth.

It's a many year since these eyes beheld that familiar spot; yet, my lads, I never got becalmed, or down with a fever, or otherwise on my beam-ends, but what my thoughts turned to old Glanwern--for it's the brightest place, with the darkest memories, I ever knew.

Yes, indeed, I think I see it now. And you won't go for to suppose, because my eyes are all a-leak, like a brace of scuppers, that I've therefore lost my trim. After all, 'tain't Glanwern. It's what happened to me there, when I was a youth as gay as a poppy, with the hand of a man and the face of a girl.

That's the mischief, messmates.

'Twould have been happier for Hugh Anwyl if he'd been as ugly in those days as John Jones is at this moment; for, you see, my lads, when I was quite young, I got rather to like a girl called Gwen--Gwendoline that is; we, indeed, called her Gwen--Thomas. She was next-door neighbour to my old dad's cottage, and she'd a deuce of a knack of fondling on you without so much as touching a b.u.t.ton of your coat.

Yes, Gwen was one of the sort that act like magnets to a seaman's lips.

I never loved her, d'ye see; but I was flattered by such a smart craft coming alongside, and--well, indeed,--I played the fool. I kissed her, because it seemed to do her good. And she--darn her cunning head!--she meant it all! I know that she'd have done anything, indeed, if I'd but have pa.s.sed the word. But I didn't. I never so much as talked about the parson.

It was about a year after this, that Rhoda Howell, the miller's daughter, came home from the boarding-school at Dolgelly, full of music, and English, and French, and all them things.

My stars! she was a picture, she was! I--that's to say, Hugh Anwyl, you know--was taken all aback, and felt something or other dance the double-shuffle under my waistcoat pocket.

Well, mates, we fell to what you may call flirting. I asked her to go for a walk, and she, indeed, consented; and so it went on, as you might say, from better to best.

Yes, indeed, I could not give those days a truer name than best; for I am sure that they were the only real suns.h.i.+ne either of us ever felt in our lifetimes.

Ye see, Rhoda loved me. Why, heaven only knows. And I--I could have died for her.

There wasn't a bright lad in Glanwern that didn't envy the luck of Hugh Anwyl; and, rightly enough, too; for I swear, though I've travelled north, south, east, and west, and have met with women of all nations, not once have I ever found the equal of Rhoda Howell. I almost shrink from speaking her name. It seems--well, _sacred_! Poor Rhoda! like a flower of spring, you died early! Yes, indeed, ours ain't one of them love tales which comes all right at t'other end of the book. She's in heaven; and Hugh Anwyl--he ain't just exactly in the other place; but he's not so very far off neither, being afloat, and registered John Jones, A.B.

To come back to my yarn, indeed.

One clear autumn evening, when the sun was lighting up the heather on the sides of Cader Idris, you might, if you'd a-happened to be there, have beheld a scene which the whole world don't show out of North Wales, me and my girl, Rhoda, was walking, cosy-like, through a quiet bit of wood, where none could hear, and I don't think I ever felt my heart so swell with joy as I did that moment, when she says, says she, beating her foot on the gra.s.s, "Shall I tell you a secret?"

"Yes," I answers, just glancing at her, and seeing her lips come over pale.

"Will you promise me," she asks, "to keep it?"

"Promise!" I cries out; "I'll _swear_!" You see, I was getting curious.

She looks at me serious--yes, indeed, very serious. Then she whispers, quite confidential-like, "I've got a lover!"

"What!" I bellows, quite savage. It didn't take much to make me jealous; and I felt as if I would have killed a rival ker-slap.

She smiles, in a faint sort of a fas.h.i.+on. Then she mutters, just as if the trees were all a-listening to us with ears instead of leaves, "I shan't say, unless you'll agree to be sensible."

A kind of a sulky feeling come over me, my boys, at her teasing words; but I told her I'd always do exactly, indeed, as she wished.

"Then," says she, with a wry face, "it's David Thomas. He've been to father this morning, and asked for me. Yes, indeed!"

"I--I'll fight the lubber!" I sings out, forgetful of my promise.

"Hus.h.!.+" she whispers, as soft as a wind which don't so much as shake the canvas; "I don't think I'm going to marry any one; but I'm certain sure I won't have David Thomas!"

Whereat she fell a-beating her little foot again upon the dead leaves.

Well, mates, I didn't quite like that prophecy of hers; but 'twas better than to hear her say she'd allow herself to be driven into wedlock with such a one as David. So I held my peace. Yes, indeed. Yet I felt as if a thunderbolt were placed aloft, right over my head, or as if a volcano were a-going to spring up under my feet. My brain began to wobble like bilge-water in a s.h.i.+p's hold, when all of a sudden an idea struck me. Yes, indeed! What's more, my bearings was right for once.

"It's that girl, Gwen," I says, "as is at the bottom of this rig. David Thomas is a sawny landlubber. He'd never have the courage to speak of his own accord. Particular when he's received no encouragement from you."

But Rhoda didn't exactly see through Hugh Anwyl's gla.s.ses. She wasn't a sort of girl to think Gwen a snake, being herself as innocent of wrong as the snow which falls straight from Paradise.

Says she, quite solemn, "You must not go to charge Gwen Thomas with them things. Gwen's my dear friend, indeed."