The skipper was a strange mixture of qualities. To a wild, off-hand,
sailor-like hilarity of disposition in hours of leisure, he united a
grave, stern energy of character while employed in the performance of
his duties. Duty was always paramount with him. A smile could
scarcely be extracted from him while it was in the course of
performance. But the instant his work was done a new spirit seemed to
take possession of the man. Fun, mischief of any kind, no matter how
childish, he entered into with the greatest delight and enthusiasm.
Among other peculiarities, he had become deeply imbued with a thirst
for scientific knowledge, ever since he had acquired, with infinite
labour, the small modicum of science necessary to navigation; and his
doings in pursuit of statistical information relative to the weather,
and the phenomena of nature generally, were very peculiar, and in
some cases outrageous. His transaction with the quicksilver was in
consequence of an eager desire to see that metal frozen (an effect
which takes place when the spirit-of-wine thermometer falls to 39
degrees below zero of Fahrenheit), and a wish to be able to boast of
having actually fired a mercurial bullet through an inch plank.
Having made a careful note of the fact, with all the relative
circumstances attending it, in a very much blotted book, which he
denominated his scientific log, the worthy skipper threw off his
coat, drew a chair to the stove, and prepared to regale himself with
a pipe. As he glanced slowly round the room while thus engaged, his
eye fell on the mass of snow before alluded to. On being informed by
the doctor for what it was intended, he laid down his pipe and rose
hastily from his chair.

"You've not a moment to lose," said he. "As I came in at the gate
just now, I saw Hamilton coming down the river on the ice, and he
must be almost arrived now."