A second rocket was fired, and, precisely like a sour-tempered old man leaving a group with whom he had quarrelled, one solitary penguin waddled to the edge and slid off. Before the splash of his departure fairly showed, the remainder, uncountable hundreds of them, like so many sheep rose and followed his example. It was the funniest sight I have ever seen. The numbers were so vast, and the hurry was so great—those behind crying “Forward!” and, presumably, those in front crying “Back!”—that the rearguard pushed the advance guard willy-nilly over the edge in a black and white cascade. A regular avalanche of penguindom poured over into the sea; the foremost, protesting strongly against the unceremonious treatment they were receiving, endeavoured to hold stubbornly to their ground; but it was no good; weight of numbers told, and very shortly the berg was clear and the water in a boil by reason of the diving, swimming, indignant birds.
It is quite on the cards that a certain amount of volcanic activity still exists amongst these South Sandwich Islands, for we clearly discerned what might easily have been sulphur fumes rising from the rocks near the water’s edge. Soundings were taken about the island, and having secured all the scientific data necessary, we sheered off.
Shortly after midnight the _Quest_ had a narrow squeak. It came about in this wise, and it is worth describing as showing the countless risks that await the vessel navigating amongst floating ice. Although dark, there was still sufficient light to see two large bergs ahead, one on either bow, with a perfectly clear stretch of water between them. To make a detour seemed altogether unnecessary, and the _Quest’s_ bow was accordingly notched on a course that should take her clear through the open space. Suddenly Commander Wild, who was on watch, realized that the ship was heading straight as a die for the middle of another gigantic berg. It was a moment for instant action; there was no time for hesitation. On a full helm the _Quest_ swung sharply round and cleared the first of the bergs, though with little enough space to spare. But for seamanlike promptitude she might easily have lost her number and gone to join the long roll of the lost in the Port of Missing Ships. What had actually happened was that Commander Wild had mistaken a great cave bored deeply into the flank of a giant berg for open water! It was a narrow squeak enough, and, realizing it, it became more possible to put faith in Clark Russell’s remarkable story of the Frozen Pirate. That great berg could have taken our little ship and tucked her away in a crevice and never noticed its tenant!