"She isna a pit too pig. She wants a muckle great-coat to keep oot the caud." "Why, you've got a blanket on under it!" "Ay. She chust happit a planket roond an' roond her potty, an' tied it wi' a bit o' line to keep it oop, an' she's waarm as waarm a' but her foots an' han's!" "I should think you are," said Steve merrily. "You're as big round as a hop pocket. You can hardly move." "Oh ay, she can move when she wants to move. Hae ye got any chilplains?" "No, have you?" "Cot any chilplains? Why, her han's an' foots are chust a' ane creat chilplain, an' when she kets wairm they ding an' itch till she cauld scratch awa' a' her skin." "I'll ask Mr Handscombe to give you something for them." "Nay, she winna tak' it. She canna' tak' pheesek." "Nonsense! I mean to rub on." "Oh, mebby she micht try a wee drap ootside." "Well, how do you like having the weather so cold as this?" "She wants to gang hame. When shall we sail back again?" "Next summer, I hope. What nonsense! How could we sail when we're frozen up?" "Preak a way oot. She wadna mind helping." "You don't know what you're talking about. But I say, I wouldn't dress up so warmly as that now." "Why, she's tressed oop wairmly!" "I've only got this sheep-skin coat on. If you dress like this now, what will you do when it grows cold?" "Phwat!" cried Watty excitedly. "Ye dinna mean that she can be more caud than this?" "Yes, this is nothing. Wait a bit till the sun does not rise at all, and it's all dark, and then I s'pose it's going to be tremendously cold." "Dinna say it, sir; dinna say it!" "Why not? It's true enough!" cried Steve. "Nay, she's lauchin' at her. Cauder! She could na pe mair caud than the noo." "Oh, very well; wait and see." "Put she's chust choking her." "Chust choking you!" cried Steve, laughing. "I tell you it's all true." "Hey, then, what's to pecome of her?" groaned Watty. "She couldna pear a pit mair caud, and she'll have to pe perried out here in the ice and snaw. Ye'll chust tell her ane thing, Meester Stevey. She winna lauch at her?" "No, I won't laugh, Watty. What is it?" "They keek oop a lot o' talk and clish ma claver aboot it kettin' dairk. Is she coing to hae ferry short days--shorter than they are the noo?" "There'll be no days at all soon. It will all be night." "Phwat! Dairk nicht, and no taylight at a'?" "Not a bit. The sun will not rise at all for about eighteen weeks." Watty looked out wildly from among the wool of the great-coat he had on and from beneath the fur of his peaked cap with quite an agonised expression. "She isna choking her?" "No, I told you I would not." "The sun winna coom oop at a'?" "No, not at all for eighteen weeks. It will be all night." "Then ta wairld's going to be at an eend?" "Nonsense! No." "Then the sun's coing oot?" "Not a bit of it." "Then whar she coing to?" "Down toward the South Pole."