"It's not _sees_," interrupted Fred.

At this moment a tremendous roar was heard, and O'Riley bounded from behind a top-sail, which represented an iceberg, dressed from head to foot in the skin of a white bear which had been killed a few days before.

"Stop, O'Riley," cried Fred; "you're too soon, man. _I_ have to come on first as an Esquimau woman, and when Grim says to the woman he wishes he could see a bear, _then_ you are to come."

"Och! whirra, but me brains is confuged intirely wid it all," said O'Riley, rising on his hind legs, and walking off with his tail, literally as well as figuratively, between his legs.

"Now, Buzzby, now; it's _your_ time. When you hear the word 'misery,'

come on and fight like a Trojan with the bears. The doctor will remind you."

Fred was remarkably patient and painstaking, and his pupils, though not apt scholars, were willing, so that the morning rehearsal was gone through with fewer mistakes than might have been expected; and when the crew came back to dinner about mid-day, which, however, was as dark as midnight, their parts were sufficiently well got up, and nothing remained to be done but to arrange the stage and scenery for the evening's entertainment--it having been resolved that the performance should commence after supper. The stage was at the after part of the cabin, and raised about a foot above the deck; and its management had been intrusted to the doctor, who, a.s.sisted by Peter Grim, transformed that portion of the ship into a scene so romantically beautiful that the first sight of it petrified the crew with surprise. But until the curtain should rise all arrangements were carefully concealed from every one except the _dramatis personae_. Even the captain and officers were forbidden to peep behind the sail that formed a curtain to the stage; and this secrecy, besides being necessary, was extremely useful, inasmuch as it excited the curiosity of the men, and afforded them food for converse and speculation for a week before the great day arrived.

The longed-for hour came at last. The cabin tables having been removed, and rows of seats placed in front of the stage, the men were admitted from the deck, to which they had been expelled an hour previous in order not to impede preliminary arrangements. There was great joking, of course, as they took their seats and criticised the fittings up. David Mizzle was of opinion that the foot-lights "wos oncommon grand," which was an unquestionable fact, for they consisted of six tin lamps filled with seal-oil, from the wicks of which rose a compound of yellow flame and smoke that had a singularly luminous effect. Amos Parr guessed that the curtain would be certain sure to get jammed at the first haul, and several of the others were convinced that O'Riley would stick his part in one way or another. However, an end was put to all remarks and expectation raised on tip-toe by the ringing of a small hand-bell, and immediately thereafter a violent pulling at the curtain which concealed the stage. But the curtain remained immovable (they always do on such occasions), and a loud whispering was heard behind the scenes.

"Clap on extra tackle and call all hands to hoist away," suggested one of the audience.

The laugh with which this advice was received was checked in the bud by the sudden rising of the curtain with such violence that the whole framework of the theatre shook again.

For a few seconds a dead silence reigned, for the men were stricken dumb with genuine amazement at the scene before them. The stage was covered with white sheets arranged in such a manner as to represent snow, and the more effectually to carry out the idea several huge blocks of real ice and a few patches of snow were introduced here and there, the cold in the after part of the cabin being too great to permit of their melting. A top-gallant-sail, on which were painted several blue cracks, and some strong white lights did duty for an iceberg, and filled up the whole back of the scene. In front of this, in the centre of the stage, on an extemporized hummock, sat Peter Grim, as the Giant Blunderbore.

His colossal proportions were enhanced by the addition of an entire white bear-skin to his ordinary hairy dress, and which was thrown round his broad shoulders in the form of a tippet. A broad scarlet sash was tied round his waist, and a crown of brown paper painted in alternate diamonds of blue, red, and yellow sat upon his brow. Grim was in truth a magnificent-looking fellow, with his black beard and moustache; and the mock-heroic frown with which he gazed up (as one of the audience suggested) at the aurora borealis, while he grasped an enormous club in his right hand, became him well.

The first few seconds of dead silence with which this was received were succeeded by a long and loud burst of applause, the heartiness of which plainly showed that the scene far exceeded the expectations of the men.

"Bravo!" cried the captain, "excellent! nothing could be better."

"It beats natur', quite," said one.

"All to sticks," cried another.

"And wot a _tree_-mendous giant he makes. Three cheers for Peter Grim, lads!"

Three cheers were promptly given with right goodwill, but the giant did not move a muscle. He was far too deeply impressed with the importance of playing his part well to acknowledge the compliment. Having gazed long enough to enable the men to get rid of their first flow of enthusiasm, Blunderbore rose majestically, and coming forward to the foot-lights, looked straight over the heads of the men, and addressed himself to the opposite bulk-head.

"Oh! 'tis a dismal thing," he began, and continued to spout his part with flashing eyes and considerable energy, until he came to the word Blunderbuss, when, either from a mistaken notion as to when it was his time to go on, or nervous forgetfulness of the plan of the piece, the Little Bear sprang over the edge of the iceberg and alighted on the middle of the stage.

"Oh! bad luck to yees intirely," said the Big Bear from behind the scenes in an angry whisper, which was distinctly heard by the audience, "ye've gone and spoiled it all, ye have. Come off, will ye, and take yer turn at the right time, won't ye?"

In the midst of the shout of delight caused by this mistake, O'Riley, forgetting that he was a bear, rushed on the stage on his hind legs, seized the Little Bear by the fore leg, and dragged him off at the other side amid loud applause. Blunderbore, with admirable self-possession, resumed his part the instant there was a calm, and carried it successfully to a close.

Just as he ended, Fred waddled on, in the guise of an Esquimau woman; and so well was he got up that the crew looked round to see if Aninga (who, with her husband, had been allowed to witness the play) was in her place. Fred had intentionally taken Aninga as his model, and had been very successful in imitating the top-knot of hair. The baby, too, was. .h.i.t off to perfection, having been made by Mivins, who proved himself a genius in such matters. Its head was a ball of rags covered with brown leather, and two white bone b.u.t.tons with black spots in the centre did duty for its eyes.

The first thing Whackinta did on coming forward was to deposit the baby on the snow with its head downwards by mistake, whereat it began to scream vociferously. This scream was accomplished by Davie Summers creeping below the stage and putting his mouth to a hole in the flooring close to which the baby's head lay. Davie's falsetto was uncommonly like to a child's voice, and the effect was quite startling. Of course Whackinta tried to soothe it, and failing in this she whipped it, which caused it to yell with tenfold violence. Thereafter losing all patience, she covered its face and stuffed its mouth with a quant.i.ty of snow, and laying it down on its back, placed a large block of ice on its head.

This, as might be expected, had the desired effect, and the baby was silenced--not, however, until Whackinta had twice called down the hole in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, "That'll do, Davie; stop, man, stop!" Then, sitting down on the hummock which Blunderbore had just left--and from behind which he was now eagerly watching her--she began to weep.

Having given full vent to her feelings in a series of convulsive sobs, Whackinta addressed a lengthened harangue, in a melancholy tone of voice, to the audience, the gist of which was that she was an unfortunate widow; that two bears had fallen in love with her, and stolen her away from her happy home in Nova Zembla; and, although they allowed her to walk about as much as she chose, they watched her closely and prevented her escaping to her own country. Worst of all, they had told her that she must agree to become the wife of one or other of them, and if she did not make up her mind and give them an answer that very day, she was to be killed and eaten by both of them. In order the more strongly to impress the audience with her forlorn condition, Whackinta sang a tender and touching ditty, composed by herself expressly for the occasion, and sang it so well that it was encored twice.

To all this Blunderbore listened with apparent rapture, and at length ventured to advance and discover himself; but the instant Whackinta saw him she fell on her knees and trembled violently.

"Spare me, good king," she said; "do not slay me. I am a poor widow, and have been brought here by two bears against my will."

"Woman," said the giant, "my name is Blunderbore. I am, as you perceive by my crown, a king; and I am a lonely man. If I kill the two bears you speak of, will you marry me?"

"Oh, do not ask me, good Blunderbore! I cannot; it is impossible. I cannot love you--you are--forgive me for saying it--too big, and fierce, and ugly to love."

Blunderbore frowned angrily, and the audience applauded vociferously at this.

"You cannot love me! ha!" exclaimed the giant, glaring round with clenched teeth.

At this moment the Big Bear uttered an awful roar, Whackinta gave a piercing scream and fled, and Blunderbore hid himself hastily behind the hummock. The next moment the two bears bounded on the stage and began to gambol round it, tossing up their hind legs and roaring and leaping in a manner that drew forth repeated plaudits. At length the Little Bear discovered the baby, and, uttering a frantic roar of delight, took it in its fore paws and held it up. The Big Bear roared also, of course, and rushing forward caught the baby by the leg, and endeavoured to tear it away from the Little Bear, at which treatment the poor baby again commenced to cry pa.s.sionately. In the struggle the baby's head came off, upon which the Little Bear put the head into its mouth and swallowed it.

The Big Bear immediately did the same with the body; but its mouth was too small, and the body stuck fast and could not be finally disposed of until the Little Bear came to the rescue and pushed it forcibly down its throat. Having finished this delicate little morsel the two bears rose on their hind legs and danced a hornpipe together--Tom Singleton playing the tune for them on a flute behind the scenes. When this was done they danced off the stage, and immediately, as if in the distance, was heard the voice of a man singing. It came gradually nearer, and at last Buzzby, in the character of Ben Bolt, swaggered up to the foot-lights with his hands in his breeches pockets.

"I'm a jolly, jolly tar, Wot has comed from afar, An' it's all for to seek my fortin"--

sang Buzzby. "But I've not found it yit," he continued, breaking into prose, "and there don't seem much prospect o' findin' it here anyhow.

Wot an 'orrible cold place it is, ugh!"

Buzzby was received with enthusiastic cheers, for he was dressed in the old familiar blue jacket, white ducks, pumps, and straw hat set jauntily on one side of his head--a costume which had not been seen for so many months by the crew of the _Dolphin_, that their hearts warmed to it as if it were an old friend.

Buzzby acted with great spirit, and was evidently a prime favourite. He could scarcely recollect a word of his part, but he remembered the general drift of it, and had ready wit enough to extemporize. Having explained that he was the only survivor of a shipwrecked crew, he proceeded to tell some of his adventures in foreign lands, and afterwards described part of his experiences in a song, to which the doctor played an accompaniment behind the scenes. The words were composed by himself, sung to the well-known Scotch air, "Corn Riggs,"

and ran as follows:--

THE JOLLY TAR.

My comrades, you must know It was many years ago I left my daddy's cottage in the greenwood O!

And I jined a man-o'-war An' became a jolly tar, An' fought for king and country on the high seas O!

Pull, boys, cheerily, our home is on the sea Pull, boys, merrily and lightly O!

Pull, boys, cheerily, the wind is pa.s.sing free An' whirling up the foam an' water sky-high O!

There's been many a n.o.ble fight, But Trafalgar was the sight That beat the Greeks and Romans in their glory O!

For Britain's jolly sons Worked the thunder-blazing guns, And Nelson stood the bravest in the fore-front O!

Pull, boys, etc.

A roaring cannon shot Came an' hit the very spot Where my leg goes click-an'-jumble in the socket O!

And swept it overboard With the precious little h.o.a.rd Of pipe an' tin an' baccy in the pocket O!

Pull, boys, etc.

They took me down below, An' they laid me with a row Of killed and wounded messmates on a table O!

Then up comes Dr. Keg, An' says, Here's a livin' leg I'll sew upon the stump if I am able O!

Pull, boys, etc.

This good and st.u.r.dy limb Had belonged to fightin' Tim, An' scarcely had they sewed it on the socket O!

When up the hatch I flew, An' dashed among the crew, An' sprang on board the Frenchman like a rocket O!

Pull, boys, etc.

'Twas this that gained the day, For that leg it cleared the way-- And the battle raged like fury while it lasted O!

Then ceased the shot and sh.e.l.l To fall upon the swell, And the Union Jack went bravely to the mast-head O!'

Pull, boys, etc.

We need scarcely say that this song was enthusiastically encored, and that the chorus was done full justice to by the audience, who picked it up at once and sang it with l.u.s.ty vehemence. At the last word Ben Bolt nodded familiarly, thrust his hands into his pockets, and swaggered off whistling "Yankee Doodle." It was a matter of uncertainty where he had swaggered off to, but it was conjectured that he had gone on his journey to anywhere that might turn up.