MORE ABOUT FREEZING POWDERS--"PERSEVERANDO"--DINING IN THE SKY--THE
DESCENT OF THE CRATER.
A black man in a barrel of treacle is said by some to be emblematical of
happiness. So situated, a black man without doubt enjoys a deal of
bliss, but I question very much if it equals the joy poor Freezing
Powders felt when he found himself once more safe on board the
_Arrandoon_, and cuddled down in a corner with his old cockatoo. [It
may be as well to state here that neither the negro boy nor the cockatoo
is a character drawn at random; both had their counterparts in real
life.] What a long story he had to tell the bird, to be sure!--what a
"terrible tale," I might call it!
As usual, when greatly engrossed in listening, the bird was busily
engaged helping himself to enormous mouthfuls of hemp-seed, spilling
more than he swallowed, cocking his head, and gazing at his little black
master, with many an interjectional and wondering "Oh!" and many a
long-drawn "De-ah me!" just as if he understood every word the boy said,
and fully appreciated the dangers he had come through.
"Well, duckie?" said the bird, fondly, when Freezing Powders had
concluded.
"Oh! der ain't no moh to tell, cockie," said the boy; "but I 'ssure you,
when I see dat big yellow bear wid his big red mouf, I tink I not hab
much longer to lib in dis world, cockie--I 'ssure you I tink so."
Freezing Powders was the hero for one evening at all events. McBain
made him recite his story and sing his daft, wild songs more than once,
and the very innocence of the poor boy heightened the general effect.
He was a favourite all over the ship from that day forth. Everybody in
a manner petted him, and yet it was impossible to spoil him, for he took
the petting as a matter of course, but always kept his place. His
duties were multifarious, though light--he cleaned the silver and shined
the boots, and helped to lay the cloth and wait at table. He went by
different names in different parts of the ship. Ralph called him his
cup-bearer, because he brought that young gentleman's matutinal coffee,
without which our English hero would not have left his cabin for the
world. Freezing Powders was message-boy betwixt steward and cook, and
bore the viands triumphantly along the deck, so the steward called him
"Mustard and Cress," and the cook "Young Shallots," while Ted Wilson
dubbed him "Boss of the Soup Tureen;" but the boy was entirely
indifferent as to what he was called.
"Make your games, gem'lams," he would say; "don't be afraid to 'ffend
dis chile. He nebber get angry I 'ssure you."
When Freezing Powders had nothing in his hand his method of progression
forward was at times somewhat peculiar. He went cart-wheel fashion,
rolling over and over so quickly that you could hardly see him, he
seemed a mist of legs, or something like the figure you see on a Manx
penny.
At other times "the doctor," as the cook was invariably called by the
crew, would pop up his head out of the fore-hatch and bawl out,--
"Pass young Shallots forward here."
"Ay, ay, doctor," the men would answer. "Shalots! Shalots! Shalots!"
Then Freezing Powder's curly head would beam up out of the saloon
companion.
"Stand by, men!" the sailor who captured him would cry; and the men
would form themselves into a line along the deck about three yards
apart, and Freezing Powders would be pitched from one to the other as if
he had been a ball of spun-yarn, until he finally fell into the friendly
arms of the cook.
About a week after the bear adventure De Vere, the aeronaut, was
breakfasting in the saloon, as he always did when there was anything
"grand in the wind," as Rory styled the situation.
"Dat is von thing I admire very mooch," said the Frenchman, pointing to
a beautifully-framed design that hung in a conspicuous part of the
saloon bulkhead.
"Ah," said Allan, laughing, "that was an idea of dear foolish boy Rory.
He brought it as a gift to me last Christmas. The coral comes from the
Indian Ocean; Rory gathered it himself; the whole design is his."
"It's a vera judeecious arrangement," said Sandy McFlail, admiringly.
The arrangement, as the doctor called it, was simple enough. Three
pieces of coral, in the shape of a rose, a thistle, and shamrock,
encased--nay, I may say enshrined--in a beautiful casket of crystal and
gilded ebony. There was the milk-white rose of England and the
blood-red thistle of Scotland side by side, and fondly twining around
them the shamrock of old Ireland--all in black.