I thought to myself that the boat might very well be used in the latter case. But Captain Len Guy preferred to wait, and perhaps this was the wiser course under our circumstances.
At eight o'clock that evening the half-condensed mist was so compact that it was difficult to walk through it. The composition of the air seemed to be changed, as though it were passing into a solid state. It was not possible to discern whether the fog had any effect upon the compass. I knew the matter had been studied by meteorologists, and that they believe they may safely affirm that the needle is not affected by this condition of the atmosphere. I will add here that since we had left the South Pole behind no confidence could be placed in the indications of the compass; it had gone wild at the approach to the magnetic pole, to which we were no doubt on the way. Nothing could be known, therefore, concerning the course of the iceberg.
The sun did not set quite below the horizon at this period, yet the waters were wrapped in tolerably deep darkness at nine o'clock in the evening, when the muster of the crew took place.
On this occasion each man as usual answered to his name except Dirk Peters.
The call was repeated in the loudest of Hurliguerly's stentorian tones. No reply.
"Has nobody seen Dirk Peters during the day?" inquired the captain.
"Nobody," answered the boatswain.
"Can anything have happened to him?"
"Don't be afraid," cried the boatswain. "Dirk Peters is in his element, and as much at his ease in the fog as a
