In the centre of the room, a stove.  From the middle of the ceiling a hanging lamp is suspended.  The walls of the cabin are painted white.

There is no rolling of the ship, and the light which comes through the skylight is sickly and faint, indicating one of those gray days of calm when ocean and sky are alike dead.  The silence is unbroken except for the measured tread of someone walking up and down on the poop deck overhead.

It is nearing two bells—­one o’clock—­in the afternoon of a day in the year 1895.

At the rise of the curtain there is a moment of intense silence.  Then the STEWARD enters and commences to clear the table of the few dishes which still remain on it after the CAPTAIN’S dinner.  He is an old, grizzled man dressed in dungaree pants, a sweater, and a woolen cap with ear-flaps.  His manner is sullen and angry.  He stops stacking up the plates and casts a quick glance upward at the skylight; then tiptoes over to the closed door in rear and listens with his ear pressed to the crack.  What he hears makes his face darken and he mutters a furious curse.  There is a noise from the doorway on the right, and he darts back to the table.

BEN enters.  He is an over-grown, gawky boy with a long, pinched face.  He is dressed in sweater, fur cap, etc.  His teeth are chattering with the cold and he hurries to the stove, where he stands for a moment shivering, blowing on his hands, slapping them against his sides, on the verge of crying.

THE STEWARD (in relieved tones—­seeing who it is).  Oh, ’tis you, is it?  What’re ye shiverin’ ’bout?  Stay by the stove where ye belong and ye’ll find no need of chatterin’.

BEN.  It’s c-c-old. (Trying to control his chattering teeth—­derisively) Who d’ ye think it were—­the Old Man?

THE STEWARD. (He makes a threatening move—­BEN shrinks away.) None o’ your lip, young un, or I’ll learn ye. (More kindly) Where was it ye’ve been all o’ the time—­the fo’c’s’le?

BEN.  Yes.

THE STEWARD.  Let the Old Man see ye up for’ard monkey-shinin’ with the handstand ye’ll get a hidin’ ye’ll not forget in a hurry.

BEN.  Aw, he don’t see nothin’. (A trace of awe in his tones—­he glances upward.) He just walks up and down like he didn’t notice nobody—­and stares at the ice to the no’th’ard.

THE STEWARD (the same tone of awe creeping into his voice).  He’s always starin’ at the ice. (In a sudden rage, shaking his fist at the skylight) Ice, ice, ice!  Damn him and damn the ice!  Holdin’ us in for nigh on a year—­nothin’ to see but ice—­stuck in it like a fly in molasses!

BEN (apprehensively).  Ssshh!  He’ll hear ye.

THE STEWARD (raging).  Aye, damn him, and damn the Arctic seas, and damn this stinkin’ whalin’ ship of his, and damn me for a fool to ever ship on it! (Subsiding, as if realizing the uselessness of this outburst—­shaking his head—­slowly, with deep conviction) He’s a hard man—­as hard a man as ever sailed the seas.