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Seven Frozen Sailors
Seven Frozen Sailors
Chapter One.
How We Got There
“But what are we going for?”
If he had not been so much of a gentleman, I should have said that the half-closing of his left eye and its rapid reopening had been a wink; as it was, we will say it was not. The next moment, he had thrown himself back in his chair, smiled, and said, quietly. “Not yet, captain – not yet. I’ll tell you by-and-by. At present it is my secret. Waiter, fill these glasses again!”
“But look here,” I said, as soon as the waiter had done his duty, “you can’t sail right up into the Arctic circle without a crew.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head; “but you will go?”
“Well – yes,” I said; “I don’t mind. She’s a smart steamer, and well found. I’ll take her.”
He rose solemnly from his chair, crossed to my side, and shook hands, before wabbling back and sitting down, filling the old-fashioned Windsor armchair so very full, that I wondered it didn’t come to pieces.
I don’t want to be personal, but he certainly was the fattest man I ever saw, and the most active. The Claimant was nothing to him. He looked perfectly stupid, as he sat there with a great wattle under his chin, which came all over his white neckerchief and clean-frilled shirt; and as he talked to you, he kept spinning round the great bunch of gold seals at the end of a watered silk ribbon, that hung over his glossy black trousers, while the huge flaps of his black bob-tail coat hung over the sides of the chair.
“You’ll be my captain, then?” he said.
“Yes, sir, I’m ready,” I replied; “but about the crew. Their first question will be, ‘is it whale or seal?’”
“Tell them – tell them,” he said, musing, – “tell them seal, and we’ll do a bit of sealing on the voyage; but, my dear Captain Cookson, the real object of our trip is at present under seal. You understand?”