their impudence, which seemed to increase with their numbers, at last exceeded all belief.  They swarmed everywhere—­under the stove, about the beds, in the lockers, between the sofa cushions, amongst the moss round the walls, and inside the boots and mittens (when empty) of the men.  And they became so accustomed to having missiles thrown at them, that they acquired to perfection that art which Buzzby described as “keeping one’s weather-eye open.”

You couldn’t hit one if you tried.  If your hand moved towards an object with which you intended to deal swift destruction, the intruder paused, and turned his sharp eyes towards you, as if to say, “What! going to try it again?—­come, then, here’s a chance for you.”  But when you threw, at best you could only hit the empty space it had occupied the moment before.  Or, if you seized a stick, and rushed at the enemy in wrath, it grinned fiercely, showed its long white teeth, and then vanished with a fling of its tail that could be construed into nothing but an expression of contempt.

At last an expedient was hit upon for destroying these disagreeable inmates.  Small bows and arrows were made, the latter having heavy, blunt heads, and with these the men slaughtered hundreds.  Whenever any one was inclined for a little sport, he took up his bow and arrows, and retiring to a dark corner of the cabin, watched for a shot.  Davie Summers acquired the title of Nimrod in consequence of his success in this peculiar field.

At first the rats proved a capital addition to the dogs’ meals, but at length some of the men were glad to eat them, especially when fresh meat failed altogether, and scurvy began its assaults.  White or Arctic foxes, too, came about the ship sometimes in great numbers, and proved an acceptable addition to their fresh provisions; but at one period all these sources failed, and the crew were reduced to the utmost extremity, having nothing to eat except salt provisions.  Notwithstanding the cheering influence of the sun, the spirits of the men fell as their bodily energies failed.  Nearly two-thirds of the ship’s company were confined to their berths.  The officers retained much of their wonted health and vigour, partly in consequence, no doubt, of their unwearied exertions in behalf of others.  They changed places with the men at last, owing to the force of circumstances—­ministering to their wants, drawing water, fetching fuel, and cooking their food—­carrying out, in short, the divine command, “By love serve one another.”

During the worst period of their distress a party was formed to go out upon the floes in search of walruses.

“If we don’t get speedy relief,” remarked Captain Guy to Tom Singleton in reference to this party, “some of us will die.  I feel certain of that.  Poor Buzzby seems on his last legs, and Mivins is reduced to a shadow.”

The doctor was silent, for the captain’s remark was too true.

“You must get up your party at once, and set off after breakfast, Mr. Bolton,” he added, turning to the first mate.  “Who can accompany you?”