d Binny
Scudds.

"Or a Chine-hee," said one of the men.

"Well, all I can say," exclaimed Bostock, "is this here, _I_ don't want
to be made into a scientific speciment."

"Here y'are!" shouted one of the men. "Here's one on 'em!"

"Get out!" said Binny Scudds, who had run to the face of a perpendicular
mass of ice, where the man stood with his pick. "That ain't one!"

"Tell yer it is," said the man. "That's the 'airs of his 'ead sticking
out;" and he pointed to what appeared to be dark threads in the white,
opaque ice.

"Tell you, he wouldn't be standing up," said Binny Scudds.

"Why not, if he was frozen so, my men?" said the doctor. "Yes; that's a
specimen. This ice has been heaved up."

"Shall we fetch him out with powder," said Bostock.

"Dear me, no!" said the doctor. "Look! that ice is laminated. Try
driving in wedges."

Three of the men climbed onto the top, and began driving in wedges, when
the ice split open evenly, leaving the figure of what appeared to be a
swarthy-looking Frenchman, exposed as to the face; but he was held in
tightly to the lower half of the icy case, by his long hair.

"Blest if he don't look jest like a walnut with one shell off!" growled
Scudds; but he was silent directly, for the Frenchman opened his eyes,
stared at us, smiled, and opened his lips.

"Yes; thank you much, comrades. You have saved me. I did not thus
expect, when we went drift, drift, drift north, in the little vessel,
with the rats; but listen, you shall hear. I am a man of wonderful
adventure. You take me for a ghost?"

Bostock nodded.

"Brave lads! brave lads!" said the Frenchman; "but it is not that I am.
I have been taken for a ghost before, and prove to my good friends that
I am not. I prove to you I am not; but a good, sound, safe, French
_matelot_!--sailor, you call it."

"I should like to hear you," said Binny Scudds, in a hoarse growl.

"You shall, my friend, who has helped to save me."

"Let it be scientific, my friend," said the doctor.

"It shall, sir--it shall," said the Frenchman.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE FRENCH SAILOR'S YARN.

I am master of the yacht _Zephire_; at least I was her master. A
hundred fathoms of green water roll over her masts now. Fishes of
monstrous shape feed on our good stores. For anything I know, a brood
of young sea-serpents is at this moment in possession of my hammock.
Let be, I will tell the story of the _Zephire_. Ten years ago an
American v