he Bay of Mercy,
and the reign of perpetual night began. There was something terribly
depressing at first in this uninterrupted gloom, and for some time after
the sun ceased to show his disc above the horizon the men of the
_Dolphin_ used to come on deck at noon, and look out for the faint
streak of light that indicated the presence of the life-giving luminary
with all the earnestness and longing of Eastern fire-worshippers.

The dogs, too, became sensibly affected by the continued absence of
light, and seemed to draw more sympathetically than ever to their human
companions in banishment. A curious and touching instance of this
feeling was exhibited when the pack were sent to sleep on Store Island.
A warm kennel had been erected for them there, partly in order that the
ship might be kept more thoroughly clean, and partly that the dogs might
act as a guard over the stores, in case bears or wolves should take a
fancy to examine them. But nothing would induce the poor animals to
keep away from the ship, and remain beyond the sound of human voices.
They deserted their comfortable abode, with one consent, the first time
they were sent to it, preferring to spend the night by the side of the
ship upon the bare snow. Coaxing them was of no use. O'Riley tried it
in vain.

"At, then," said he to Dumps with a wheedling air and expression of
intense affection that would have taken by storm the heart of any
civilised dog, "_won't_ ye come now an' lay in yar own kennel? Sure
it's a beautiful wan, an' as warm as the heart of an iceberg. Doo come
now, avic, an' I'll show ye the way."

But Dumps's heart was marble. He wouldn't budge. By means of a piece
of walrus, however, he was at length induced to go with the Irishman to
the kennel, and was followed by the entire pack. Here O'Riley
endeavoured to make them comfortable, and prevailed on them to lie down
and go to sleep, but whenever he attempted to leave them they were up
and at his heels in a moment.

"Och, but ye're too fond o' me entirely! Doo lie down agin, and I'll
sing ye a ditty!"

True to his word, O'Riley sat down by the dog-kennel, and gave vent to a
howl which his "owld grandmother," he said, "used to sing to the pig,"
and whether it was the effects of this lullaby, or of the cold, it is
impossible to say, but O'Riley at length succeeded in slipping away and
regaining the ship, unobserved by his canine friends. Half an hour
later he went on deck to take a