CHAPTER XII.
The "Spider."-- Fried Eggs .-- The "Plates."-- "Awful Fresh!"-- No Salt .-- Plans for getting Salt from Sea-Water .-- Ice-Water .-- Fried Goose .-- Plans to escape .-- A Gloomy Night .-- Fight with a Walrus .-- Another "_Wood-Pile._"-- Wade Sick .-- A Peevish Patient and a Fractious Doctor .-- The Manufacture of Salt.
We stood and warmed our hands.

It felt comfortable,--decidedly so; for though the sun was high and bright, yet the north-west wind drove smartly across the rocks above us.

Currents of air fresh from the lair of icebergs can't be very warm ever.

There was plenty of ice all about.
"Ready to cook those eggs, Weymouth ?" Raed exclaimed.

"You were going to furnish spider, kettle, or something of that sort, you know." "Yes, sir; and all I'll ask is that some of you will be dressing a couple of those geese while I am gone.