Pen was
rather vexed. "My nose doesn't need your advice; it doesn't ask for
it; you'd better mind your own business."

"Come, don't be angry, Pen; I didn't think your nose was so tender. I
should be as glad as any one else to have a glass of whiskey,
especially on such a cold day; but if in the long run it does more
harm than good, why, I'm very willing to get along without it."

"You may get along without it," said Warren, the stoker, who had
joined them, "but it's not everybody on board who gets along without
it."

"What do you mean, Warren?" asked Garry, looking at him intently.

"I mean that for one purpose or another there is liquor aboard, and I
fancy that aft they don't get on without it."

"What do you know about it?" asked Garry.

Warren could not answer; he spoke for the sake of speaking.

"You see, Garry," continued Bolton, "that Warren knows nothing about
it."

"Well," said Pen, "we'll ask the commander for a ration of gin; we
deserve it, and we'll see what he'll say."

"I advise you not to," said Garry.

"Why not?" cried Pen and Gripper.

"Because the commander will refuse it. You knew what the conditions
were when you shipped; you ought to think of that now."

"Besides," said Bolton, who was not averse to taking Garry's side, for
he liked him, "Richard Shandon is not master; he's under orders like
the rest of us."

"Whose orders?" asked Pen.

"The captain's."

"Ah, that ridiculous captain's!" cried Pen. "Don't you know there's no
more captain than there is tavern on the ice? That's a mean way of
refusing politely what we ask for."

"But there is a captain," persisted Bolton; "and I'll wager two
months' pay that we shall see him before long."

"All right!" said Pen; "I should like to give him a piece of my mind."

"Who's talking about the captain?" said a new speaker.

It was Clifton, who was inclined to be superstitious and envious at
the same time.

"Is there any news about the captain?" he asked.

"No," a single voice answered.

"Well, I expect to find him settled in his cabin some fine morning,
and without any one's knowing how or whence he came aboard."

"Nonsense!" answered Bolton; "you imagine, Clifton, that he's an imp,
a hobgoblin such as are seen in the Scotch Highlands."

"Laugh if you want to, Bolton; that won't alter my opinion. Every day
as I pass the cabin I peep in through the keyhole, and one of these
days I'll tell you what he looks like, and how he's made.