the ship summoned them from their labors; they saw the sails unfurled,
and that she was getting under way. The two sporting partners, however,
Mr. M'Dougal and David Stuart, had strolled away to the south of the
island in pursuit of penguins. It would never do to put off without
them, as there was but one boat to convey the whole.

While this delay took place on shore, the captain was storming on board.
This was the third time his orders had been treated with contempt, and
the ship wantonly detained, and it should be the last; so he spread all
sail and put to sea, swearing he would leave the laggards to shift for
themselves. It was in vain that those on board made remonstrances and
entreaties, and represented the horrors of abandoning men upon a sterile
and uninhabited island; the sturdy captain was inflexible.

In the meantime the penguin hunters had joined the engravers of
tombstones, but not before the ship was already out at sea. They all, to
the number of eight, threw themselves into their boat, which was about
twenty feet in length, and rowed with might and main. For three hours
and a half did they tug anxiously and severely at the oar, swashed
occasionally by the surging waves of the open sea, while the ship
inexorably kept on her course, and seemed determined to leave them
behind.

On board the ship was the nephew of David Stuart, a young man of spirit
and resolution. Seeing, as he thought, the captain obstinately bent
upon abandoning his uncle and the others, he seized a pistol, and in a
paroxysm of wrath swore he would blow out the captain's brains, unless
he put about or shortened sail.

Fortunately for all parties, the wind just then came ahead, and the boat