A man came creeping up to me, because the slope of the deck prevented him from holding himself upright: it was Hurliguerly, working himself along with his hands like a top-man on a yard.
Stretched out at full length, my feet propped up against the jamb of the door, I held out my hand to the boatswain, and helped him, not without difficulty, to hoist himself up near me.
“What is wrong?” I asked. “A stranding, Mr. Jeorling.”
“We are ashore!”
“A shore presupposes land,” replied the boatswain ironically, “and so far as land goes there was never any except in that rascal Dirk Peters’ imagination.”
“But tell me—what has happened?”
“We came upon an iceberg in the middle of the fog, and were unable to keep clear of it.”
“An iceberg, boatswain?”
“Yes, an iceberg, which has chosen just now t
