About the third morning, when Gearge came to the tent as usual, his face seemed rounder and redder than ever; his eyes, too, were so wreathed in smile-begotten wrinkles that they had almost disappeared. It was moreover observed that the pockets of his cow-gown were more bulky than usual.

"We'll have a rare lark to-day," said Gearge, pulling out first one polecat ferret and then another.

And so they had; for what with working the banks all the morning and shooting the rabbits in the open that succeeded in running the blockade, they had wonderful bags. Though Frank didn't say much, he was glad to get back to the tent; his feet were swollen, and he could hardly carry his gun. He was certainly "bein' broke" with a vengeance.

CHAPTER THREE.

FRANK IS THOROUGHLY "HARDENED OFF"--DEER-STALKING IN THE HIGHLANDS-- PARTRIDGE, PHEASANT, AND DUCK SHOOTING--"GOOD-BYE"--"NONE BUT THE BRAVE DESERVE THE FAIR."

"How does he harden, Fred?" cried Chisholm, bursting all unannounced one morning into the dining-room of a North Wales hotel, where Freeman and young Willoughby were just putting the finishing touches to a glorious breakfast, with boiled eggs and mountain trout. Chisholm had been absent for a whole week. "How does he harden?"

"I think he is getting on famously. He's curing nicely."

"I declare," said Frank, laughing, "you talk of me as if I were a ham or something; and Chisholm asks about me in the same tone of voice he would use if he wanted to know how your meerschaum coloured."

"'Cause we're interested in you, dear boy," said Chisholm, feeling Frank's arm. "But, bless my heart," he continued, "there is a biceps for you; why, it's as hard as a hawser! And there's a sunburnt face for you! Waiter, bring the beef. And what are you doing, boys?"

"Well," said Fred, "you know we've been two months now under canvas, so we thought we would try a week of civilisation. But we've had rare sport enough, fishing in river and fishing in lake, and shooting almost whatever we came across--rabbits, leverets, pigeons, plovers, anything."

"Bad boys," said Chisholm. "But never mind, we're off to-morrow."

"Where away?"

"To the Highlands, the stern Scottish Highlands," said Chisholm. "I'm promised a week among the deer. You're hard enough for that now, Frank."

"What a ubiquitous trio we are, to be sure!" said Fred.

They certainly seemed so, reader; for two days after the foregoing conversation they were dining at a quiet little hotel in Beauley, and by four of the clock next morning they were on their way to the house of Duncan McPhee, the head keeper of the great forest of Cairntree, one of the wildest tracts of country in the wild North. Though termed a forest, it is only partially wooded; for gigantic hills, bare and rugged, tower skywards every here and there from amidst the pine-trees, and there are, too, vast tracts of bare brae or moorland, covered only with heather, the home of the grouse and the ptarmigan. Deer abound in this forest in countless herds; but, saving the houses of the keepers, you might journey for days in all directions without seeing the smoke from a single habitation.

Early as our heroes were abroad, Duncan and his dogs were there to meet them. But their first day was a blank, and they returned very tired and somewhat disheartened to the keeper's house, where, putting up with Highland fare, they determined to stay all night. The next day they were rewarded with the sight of deer in hundreds, but that was all; the deer were too wild and wary to reach. More than once that day, as some n.o.ble stag stood for a moment on knoll or brae-top, scenting the wind, then dashing wildly off adown the glen, the words of Walter Scott came to Frank's mind--

"The crested leader, proud and high, Tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky, A moment gazed adown the dale, A moment snuffed the tainted gale; Then, as the headmost foe appeared.

With one brave bound the copse he cleared, And stretching forward free and far, Sought the wild heaths of Uam Var."

But the third was a never-to-be-forgotten day, for Frank brought down his first stag, and it was a "royal." Luck seemed to set in after this.

It never rains but it pours, you know, and n.o.body had any reason to be dissatisfied with that week spent among the red deer in the wilds of Cairntree.

I wish I had s.p.a.ce wherein to tell you of one-half of the delightful sporting adventures our heroes had during the many months Frank was "bein' broke," or of the many happy, pleasant days they had to look back to, when afterwards sojourning with wild beasts and wilder men--of days spent among the partridges, or with the c.o.c.kers at work, or following the pheasants. They all agreed that there was but little true sport attached to pheasant-shooting, the birds are so tame.

"It's just like shooting hens," Chisholm remarked.

But perhaps their dearest recollections went back to the time they spent in duck shooting. These were days they might have marked in their diaries with a red cross--spent entirely under canvas they were, in true gipsy fashion; for although the season was autumn, the weather was still bright and warm, and the nights just cool enough to be pleasant. By marshes or lonely moorlands, by inland lakes and ponds, or by wooded friths and estuaries, following up the wild-fowl never failed to give them the very greatest of pleasure and sport. In these adventures their chief companion was a dog of the Irish water-spaniel type, and Pattie by name. Red all over was Pattie, and one ma.s.s of ringlets, which even a whole day's swimming in sea or river failed to unravel; he even had a fringe or top-knot over his bonnie brow, which quite set off his peculiar style of beauty. Pattie's style of beauty was what would be designated in Scotland "the daft." Mind, you couldn't help loving Pattie--I defy you not to love him if you tried; but he had such queer ways, and such a funny face, that you couldn't look at him long without laughing. Pattie was truly Irish, but grand at his work nevertheless, whether retrieving a dead duck or a maimed one. When plunging into the water after the latter, "Be quiet wid yer skraiching," Pattie would seem to say. "Sure I'll fetch you out, and you'll never feel it at all, at all." But you ought to have seen Pattie coming up out of the river with a dead duck that he probably had had to swim a long distance against the tide for; there was a pride in his beaming eye that my pen would attempt in vain to depict. "What do ye think av me now?" Pattie would seem to say.

But summer and autumn and the first months of winter wore away, and, after spending a whole fortnight at the white hare-shooting among the mountains of Perthshire--and harder work I defy you to find--Frank was at last declared thoroughly broken in, completely hardened off.

"A man," said Chisholm, "that can stand a week or two among white hares, and not feel too tired to sleep at night, is fit for anything. Now, boys," he added, "what do you say to a run right away up to the polar ice-fields?"

"I'm in," said Fred quietly.

"Oh!" said Chisholm, "you're always in for anything. If I asked you to take a trip to the moon you'd jump at it."

"Or over it," said Fred, smiling, "like the cow in the poem of 'Hey, diddle diddle;' but are you in earnest about the ice-fields?"

"Downright."

"Well," said Frank, with a.s.sumed modesty, "if you think I'm 'broke'

enough, please I'd like to go too."

"Bravo!" cried Chisholm O'Grahame, "that settles the question."

They made arrangements to sail in a seal-and-whale ship in February.

They got an introduction to a captain of one of these, and he gladly undertook to convey them to Greenland and back, "free, gratis, and for nothing, except the pleasure of their company, and the skins and blubber they would no doubt kill." That was how the captain expressed it.

"But, mind you," he said, "you'll have to rough it a bit."

"We don't mind that," said Chisholm.

Before he left for the far distant north, Frank Willoughby spent some weeks at General Lyell's castle. Happy, happy weeks they were, and how quickly, too, they fled away! I could make you feel very sentimental and "gushive," reader, if I told you all that pa.s.sed between the lovely young Eenie and our hero Frank, but I never tell tales out of school, so there. I may just say, however, that, when the last moment _did_ come, poor Eenie could hardly breathe the fond "good bye" for the tears that she could not repress.

The General's adieu was a hearty one.

"Good-bye," he said, "keep up a good heart, and," he added laughingly, as he patted Frank on the back, "remember--

"'None but the brave deserve the fair.'"

CHAPTER FOUR.

PART II--THE POLAR ICE-FIELDS.

OUTWARD BOUND--NIGHT IN THE PACK--THE AURORA--THE AWFUL SILENCE OF THE ICE-FIELDS--SEALS! SEALS!--THE BATTLE WITH THE BLADDER-NOSES--JACK IN THE BOX WITH A VENGEANCE--A FIGHT WITH WALRUSES.

The good ship _Grampus_ slipped away from her moorings on the 13th of February, 18--, and steamed slowly seaward from the port of Peterhead, North Britain, hound for the wild and desolate regions that surround the pole. She steamed slowly away in the very teeth of a breeze of winds that might have frightened a man of less daring and pluck than Captain Anderson, for the sea was grey and stormy, the sky was leaden and threatening, and the very sea-birds that screamed around the vessel's bows seemed to warn him that there was danger on the deep. But the Captain heeded them not. He had said he would sail on this day, and he did, for well he knew what his vessel could now do, and had done before; besides, he was a true sailor, and had all a sailor's impatience to begin the voyage.

"It looks a bit squally," he said to the pilot as he bade him adieu, "and we may have a dirty day or two, but the _Grampus_ can stand it, and I'm not the man to linger in the harbour one half-hour after I'm ready to start. Good-bye, old man."

The _Grampus_ was a steam brig of some three hundred and fifty tons, fitted with powerful engines, and a screw that could be hoisted up out of the water when sail was on her. Built of wood, she was as stout and strong a ship as ever clove the waves. And she needed all her strength too--there was a wide and stormy ocean to cross, and there was ice to plough through that no fragile ship dare ever face. The captain was the owner of the vessel; and many a voyage, and not unsuccessful ones either, had he made to the polar ice-fields, but the present one was fated to be the most eventful of all.

From the very commencement of the cruise, until the first ice was sighted, the wind kept steadily ahead, and the seas kept washing over the brave brig from stem to stern. But she was not to be daunted, so steadily she steamed on northwards, ever northwards.

A week after the last of the lonely isles of Shetland had sunk like a little cloud beneath the southern horizon they were far away at sea-- indeed, there was nothing to be seen from the masthead, only the great tumbling seas that dashed their sprays high over the funnel. Even the birds had left them, all save that strange mysterious creature that is ever seen wheeling around ships sailing over the broad Atlantic, or crossing the northern seas, and which naturalists call the stormy petrel, and mariners Mother Carey's chicken. No wonder sailors look upon this bird with something akin to superst.i.tion and awe, so dark and dusky is the creature, the very little white about it serving but to make its blackness visible; it flits from stormy wave to stormy wave like a veritable evil spirit.

Our friend Frank, in his voyage to the polar ice-fields, suffered somewhat from _mal de mer_--it sounds far nicer in French than in English--but he bravely stuck to the deck. He was more than once washed into the lee scuppers, but he had on an oilskin suit of fear-nothing dimensions; so he just scrambled up again, or in other words, like the cork leg of the merchant of Rotterdam, he got up "and went on as before."

The farther north the _Grampus_ got, the shorter grew the days. Indeed, they seemed to be sailing into the home of eternal night, only it must be remembered that the season was yet early, and that in the polar regions for three months of the year the sun never appears above the horizon. If the nights were long, however, it cannot be said they were dark; they were lighted up with a magnificence never seen in more southern lat.i.tudes. The sky itself was at times of a deep and indescribably dark-blue colour, and the stars were great wheels of sparkling light. This was in itself a beautiful sight, and our heroes used to linger on deck till far on in the night, as if under some pleasant spell. But what pen can describe the gorgeous splendour of the northern lights, or Aurora. Imagine if you can a vast and broad bow, or arc of a circle, stretched athwart the heavens, twenty times as broad as any rainbow, and seeming to be ever so much farther away; imagine this bow to be composed of spears or needles of light--green, blue, crimson, and yellow--and imagine these spears in constant motion, shooting upwards and downwards, changing places incessantly, changing colours constantly, and this too with inconceivable rapidity, and you will be able to form some faint notion of the wonderful sight the Aurora presented to the eyes of our astonished travellers.

Reader, I have been alone in the ice-fields by night, while the Aurora was playing in the heavens above. You cannot conceive of the solitude and lonesomeness of such a situation, nor can you form any conception of the deep, the indescribable silence that reigns in the frozen ocean.

Well, upwards as I gazed at the northern lights, I have heard sounds emanating from them. That I do not remember having ever read of anywhere. A line of spears would advance from the east and another from the west; they would meet and commingle with a subdued clashing and hissing noise, such as you might make by rubbing the palms of the hands rapidly together. What this strange sound can be is a mystery that may never be revealed.

Captain Anderson told our heroes that he never thought the voyage had begun until the crow's-nest, or out-look barrel, was hoisted to the mainmast head.