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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
22
The
captain
lifted
his
head
and
gave
me
a
questioning
glance.
I
could
not
help
noticing
that
the
dulled
look
in
his
eyes
had
gone,
and
there
was
instead
a
clear
intentness
that
made
them
seem
dark
and
piercing.
“There
was
a
supply
ship
expected,
and
the
pastor,
an
excellent
Christian
man,
made
no
doubt
that
we
should
get
passage
in
her.
He
was
hoping
that
orders
would
come
to
break
up
the
station;
but
everything
was
uncertain,
and
we
got
on
the
best
we
could
for
a
while.
We
fished,
and
helped
the
people
in
other
ways;
there
was
no
other
way
of
paying
our
debts.
I
was
taken
to
the
pastor's
house
until
I
got
better;
but
they
were
crowded,
and
I
felt
myself
in
the
way,
and
made
excuse
to
join
with
an
old
seaman,
a
Scotchman,
who
had
built
him
a
warm
cabin,
and
had
room
in
it
for
another.
He
was
looked
upon
with
regard,
and
had
stood
by
the
pastor
in
some
troubles
with
the
people.
He
had
been
on
one
of
those
English
exploring
parties
that
found
one
end
of
the
road
to
the
north
pole,
but
never
could
find
the
other.
We
lived
like
dogs
in
a
kennel,
or
so
you'd
thought
if
you
had
seen
the
hut
from
the
outside;
but
the
main
thing
was
to
keep
warm;
there
were
piles
of
bird-skins
to
lie
on,
and
he'd
made
him
a
good
bunk,
and
there
was
another
for
me.
'Twas
dreadful
dreary
waitin'
there;
we
begun
to
think
the
supply
steamer
was
lost,
and
my
poor
ship
broke
up
and
strewed
herself
all
along
the
shore.
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