Breathing the invigorating night air, Horace Stirling climbed over the ship's rail, squared his shoulders, and started toward the poop steps. The consciousness that he had been shanghaied came to him; the sensation was a novel one.

He reached the weather steps. There he paused and swung, facing the after part of the ship. A group of seamen were gathered in the waist. They were receiving the shanghaied sailors who had been brought out in the Whitehall boat.

Stirling gathered in the details of the whaler and his jaw dropped in wonder, while his eyes softened with an appreciative glow. He had never sailed or steamed upon such a ship. She was complete and yachtlike, and her deck house extended fore and aft between the main and mizzenmast. It was such a cabin as one would expect to find on a government revenue cutter. A squat, drab funnel reared from a boat deck, and glowed through the mist like the end of a fat cigar.

Stirling turned and mounted the poop, to face two of the men with whom he had drunk in that tavern near the wharves. One thrust out a hamlike hand. "Remember me?" he said, with a twinkle in his eyes. "I'm Cushner who took the Anderson expedition to the mouth of the Lena River. You were ice pilot of the Northern Lights that season. You gammed us in Bering Strait. Remember?"

Stirling stared up into the big seaman's face, squinting his eyes in an attempt to recall a vague memory. Slowly the details of the Anderson expedition came back to him.

"You're Cushner!" he blurted out. "By the jumpin' bowheads, you are! Who's the little fellow?" Stirling motioned toward the second seaman who had descended the lee poop steps and started forward to where a knot of men were gathered about the corner of the deck house.

The big mate of the ship leaned over the quarter-deck rail and said: "He's Marr—Captain Marr of the Baffin Bay crowd. See, he's mixin' with th' men. No man leaves this ship, but you, out of the bunch. Sailors are scarce as bowheads in the western ocean these days."

"Do you need a pilot?"

"We certainly do! You can come if you want to."

"How about this ship?"

"She's the Pole Star. She once was called the Alexander. She was a Russian yacht. She's fitted out for whaling and trading. Good food and all that. The old man will be glad to sign you on a big lay. We're going right up in the ice."

"Who'll be the afterguard?"

"Well, you'll make one if you join us. There's Marr and Whitehouse, who just came by rail. That puts me back to second mate. Then there's Sanderson and Manley—third and fourth. Besides, there's Maddox and Baldwin of the engine-room force. It's a good outfit. Fair play and money to be had."

Stirling rubbed his nose, lifted his eyes to the rigging, squared his shoulders, and turned toward Cushner. "How about all this?" he asked with a wide sweep of his arm. "Kind of queer, eh?"

"Well, no," drawled the big mate, tugging at his long beard. "No; not that I know of, Stirling. Everything's on deck as far as I can see. The old man is a part owner—it's a private venture. He and Whitehouse know their business. Just keep your tongue spliced and say nothing. The old man will be in the cabin at six bells. We'll talk to him then; if you want to go ashore, you can. If you stay, I'll promise you some fair game on a man's sea."

Stirling took a turn about the quarter-deck of the Pole Star, then came back to the rail and leaned over. Marr had disappeared.

A bell struck over the misted waters of the city, and was followed by others. A roar sounded to the westward, where the surf beat upon Seal Rocks and the entrance to the harbour. A salty gust stirred the standing rigging of the ship, and it filled the Ice Pilot's lungs with remembered calling. He braced his shoulders, lifted his head, and felt like a man who has shaken off a bad dream. He was going North again, on a good ship with a staunch crew.

Stirling turned toward the big mate, who stood under the shadow of a long, white whaleboat. "I'll join," the Ice Pilot said, simply. "Let's go below and see Marr. It's six bells and more. Like as not he and I can get along. I ain't a hard man to please. Only, this has got to be an honest voyage. I ain't in for anything downright crooked. It ain't my nature!"

"Mine, neither," said Cushner. "Come on!"

Stirling followed the second mate across the deck to an ornate companion close by the taffrail, and they descended by turning, in the manner of seamen the world over. Stirling removed his cap and stood rooted in the doorframe as his eyes gathered in the details of the cabin.

A soft electric cluster shone overhead, and walls and bulkheads were hung with draperies. The deck was covered with Persian carpets, while here and there—scattered in haphazard fashion—gleamed the tawny yellow pelts of wild animals.

Athwart the ship, from inner skin to inner skin, the cabin extended, with staterooms fore and aft of the companion stairway. The round portholes, covered with silken curtains, alone remained to tell that the room was upon a ship.

Stirling blinked his eyes, then opened them wide and drank in the details of wealth and luxury. He stared at shelves of morocco-bound books, their titles stamped in gold; he noted a baby-grand piano—the first he had ever seen—lashed with silken cords to the after bulkhead. Upon it music lay in well-bound sheaths.

Cushner advanced and gripped the Ice Pilot's elbow. "Come on," he whispered, pointing toward an alcove between two bookcases. "The captain is sitting there."

Half hidden by a portiÈre, stretched three quarter length upon a divan, Marr reclined, deep in a book of modern verse. He lifted his legs and dropped them to the deck, laid the book down, and rose with a quick thrust of his hand toward Stirling. "Be seated," he said, clasping the Ice Pilot's hand with a nervous grip then indicating a long, cushioned seat.

Stirling followed the second mate's example and sat down on the nearest cushion, stretching out his long legs, hitching up his trousers, and fingering his cap. He raised his chin and met Marr's eyes, studying the clean-cut nostrils of the little captain. He gauged the mentality of the man, and thrashed the events of the night over in his mind as he held a steady poise.

"This is Horace Stirling!" blurted out Cushner, with a voice like a bull. "He's the best all-around whaler and ice pilot in the game. I didn't recognize him in that room in Frisco. We landed a bigger fish than we thought. I reckon he can go ashore if he wants to. We can't keep him unless he wants to stay."

"How about it?" asked Marr.

Stirling fingered his cap, but he had already made up his mind. The ship suited him, Cushner was a good mate, and the North called with all the strength of the wide places.

"I'll sign on," he said, simply. "Like as not I couldn't do better. I don't like the way you shipped part of your crew; outside of that, this suits me, if it's honest."

"The crew," said Marr, softly, "was a serious problem. I wanted a few more men, and just at the time I saw no other way to get them than by straight, old-time shanghaing. It worked!"