The Ice Pilot placed the captain as he listened to the apology—Marr was of a nature to brook no excuse. He had determined upon sailing the Pole Star for a voyage of discovery and profit, and he had acted outside the law in order to obtain a crew. This was not unusual upon the Coast of Barbary. Stirling, as honest as a dollar, had seen the same method employed before, and he puzzled his brain for a deeper motive, which might be behind the little skipper's steel-gray eyes.

There seemed no fathoming the beard-hidden face of the captain, and Stirling leaned back, dropping his eyes to the rug at his feet, where he studied the polished points of his shore boots.

"We go with the tide at sunup," said Marr. "This is the reason, and the only one, that we took matters in our own hands and obtained a complete crew. Whalers must have a bad odour in these waters, from all indications."

Stirling glanced up. He nodded.

"We go North," continued Marr, rubbing his hands together. "North, for a season of seven months, to whale! Mr. Cushner knows who I am. The mate, Mr. Whitehouse, is ashore. He'll be out very soon, and he'll attest to my financial responsibility. Roth & Co. have outfitted the Pole Star. They know me! I'll take Mr. Cushner's word that you are a first-class ice pilot. You sign on with me and I'll see that you get a thousand dollars in minted gold when we drop anchor at Frisco. In addition to that bonus, I'll give you the lay of the mate—a one-twenty-fifth of the proceeds of the voyage. Is that satisfactory?"

Stirling considered the figures mentioned. The amount was at least a captain's share in the old days of whaling.

"That's handsome enough, captain," he said. "That suits me. But one thing—I'm plain spoken—is this ship going whaling, or something else? I want to know."

Marr smiled pleasantly. "Why did you ask?" he said, stroking his Vandyke beard with slender fingers.

"Only to know. You see, I can go ashore and sign on with one of Larribee's ships. Larribee knows me. I brought in many a head of bone for him."

"And you'll do the same for me!" exclaimed Marr, resting his hand on Stirling's shoulder. "Sign on and I'll promise you that there will be no regrets. All's honest and aboveboard. Whitehouse—Mr. Whitehouse is an English gentleman. He talks like a cockney, but that is an affliction. You'll get along with him. He's new to the Bering."

"I'll sign!" said Stirling, rising. "I'll have to get my dunnage bag. It's at Antone's, down by the ferry."

"We'll tend to that!"

Stirling turned toward Cushner. "Have you entirely outfitted?" he asked, professionally. "Got all of your whaling gear aboard?"

"We have! Six boats! A forehold chockablock and whale line and irons. Papers, everything, all right to clear. Some of the crew have been North before. The rest can learn. You and I can tend to that, eh?"

Stirling swept the cabin comprehensively. "Too fine a ship to buck the old floes with," he said, glancing down at the skipper.

"Nothing too fine for the North!" exclaimed Marr. "Write me out an order for your bag. I'll send Snowball, my cabin boy, with the dinghy."

Stirling scribbled an order on the back of a shipping master's card. He passed it over to Marr, who touched a button at the end of the piano. A negro, sleepy-eyed and curious, thrust a kinky head through an after doorway.

Marr stepped over the rugs and whispered his instructions. Stirling, whose ears were sharp, caught a command to wait on shore for somebody. This order was repeated.

The negro vanished, and Marr paced athwart the ship. Wheeling suddenly, he listened with his ear cocked toward the deck beams. A shuffling of feet sounded overhead as men sprang down from the rail. The bell in the wheelhouse struck seven times. It was echoed from forward.

"That's Whitehouse!" said the captain. "We'll all have a drink!"

The slide to the deck companion opened, and two men descended. One was a square block of a man, with long arms and a pair of bushy brows which thatched perpetually smiling eyes. He was Baldwin, the American engineer.

The second man held Stirling. "Mr. Whitehouse," Marr introduced, with a comprehensive chuckle as he nodded toward the English mate.

Whitehouse had the long, beaklike nose of the typical cockney, while his lips were thick and somewhat red. His tanned features and knotted hands, his quick manner and alert stride, spoke the Dundee and Grimsby whaler, who had sailed many seas and fastened to more than an ordinary number of bowhead whales.

"We're all here!" declared Marr. "Ship's completely outfitted with seamen and material. We'll drink to success!"

The little captain disappeared through an after doorway, returning with a tray and a bottle. Setting these down on a table, he drew forth a chart of the Arctic and Bering Sea.

"While we're drinking," he said, hardening his eyes, "let's look over the chart. You, Stirling, might help us out. Glad you're coming along."

Stirling upended a decanter and poured out a generous portion of brandy. He tasted this, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaned forward over the chart. His finger traced a line from the Aleutians northward.

"There," he said, "is the first whaling ground—just the other side the islands. The ice will lie about here, and the bowhead can't go north till it opens. They're wise fish, but they can't get through any more than we can."

"How about the other whaling spots?" asked Marr.

"Well, captain," said Stirling, "after the Bering Strait, you'll find aplenty, there's Herald Island and Wrangel Land. There's Point Barrow—I've caught late whales at the Point. Then there's the lane between the grounded ice floes and the coast, all the way to the mouth of the Mackenzie River. I've wintered three times at Herschel Island, and we always got bone in the early spring when the ice broke."

Marr leaned over the chart and asked softly: "How is the whaling close to the Siberian shore? I've heard of catches in the Gulf of Anadir. I think it would be wise that we go there as soon as the ice permits."

Stirling glanced keenly at the little skipper, for he sensed a deeper motive in the question. The Gulf of Anadir was close indeed to Russia. It was a favourite sealing ground; few whales were to be found there. The season was generally too late to capture any bowheads on account of the ice barrier which held back the ships.

"I don't recommend it," he said, simply. "I've been there twice. First time was in the Beluga. We didn't fasten to anything that year. The second time was in the old Norwhale—Captain Gully commanding. We fastened to one head close by the Siberian shore. That was all. It's barren waters unless you can put the ship in early."

"Can't you do that?"

"Not always; sometimes. I've seen the pack ice so thick at the Pribilofs, or just north of St. Paul Island, that it was late in July when we broke through and reached Bering Strait. We got nothing but some trade stuff from the natives that season. It was too late to find bowheads; they'd taken the Northeast Passage and gone through to Baffin Bay."

"Just the same," said Marr, "I'd like to try for the Gulf of Anadir. Ever hear of Disko Island?"

Stirling narrowed his eyes. Disko Island was the very heart of the richest sealing ground in all the world—outside of the Pribilofs. It belonged to Russia, and around it were gunboats of England, Japan, and the United States.

"I know it well," he said, dryly. "There's plenty of seals there, but darn few bowheads!"

Marr glanced at Whitehouse, then his eyes travelled the circle and rested upon the chart. He followed Stirling's pointing finger.

"It's a blym shame!" blurted out the English mate. "It's an outrage that them Russians got all them nice little pelts. What's the 'arm in lookin' the island over? Who's going to bother now? Who's running Russia, anyway?"

"The Bolsheviki," said Marr. "What do you say we take a look at the island? Stirling can put us through the early ice. We'll skirt the Siberian shore afterward. I want to drop in at East Cape, they say trading is good there."

Stirling gripped a glass and raised it to his lips. He stared at the chart, then fastened a penetrating glance which bored into the little skipper's brain, and smiled faintly as Marr remained silent.

"I'm willing," he said. "I'll take you anywhere. We're all together. I see no harm in looking over Disko Island."

"All we want," said Cushner, rising, "is to follow the skipper, here, and keep our jaw tackle closed. He'll bring results!"

Stirling was watching Marr's face, which lightened perceptibly.

The captain of the Pole Star thrust his hand out, palm upward. "Well spoken," he said. "I'll guarantee good results!"

Marr rolled up the chart with a swift whirl of his hands, then rose and stared at Baldwin, who had remained silent.

"Have you everything aboard?" the little skipper asked.

"Yes; we're coaled. I can safely say the engine-room force is complete. Naturally we'll have to recoal at whatever point we can on the Siberian coast or at Unalaska. The bunkers are chockablock, but you know that ice work takes the steam. And coal is high; it'll be about twenty dollars a ton at Dutch Harbor or Point Barrow, if there's any there at all."

"Confounded little!" blurted Stirling. "There's an on-shore whaling station there and a missionary settlement. But"—the Ice Pilot paused and smiled at a memory—"there's a spot on the coast east of Point Barrow where we can dig out all the coal we need. I know it. I was there in the old Northern Lights, and I saw more coal than you could find in Pittsburgh. There's mountains of it hidden under the snow."

"That's fine!" Marr exclaimed. "We'll fill the bunkers there. Now everybody stand up and we'll drink a final toast to the success of our venture. What'll the toast be?"

"To a full hold of bone!" Stirling suggested.

Marr glanced at Whitehouse. The mate winked and stared at his glass. "I'd say," he muttered, "that there's a better toast. Let's all drink to success at Disko Island, where the seals are."

Stirling grew thoughtful. Again the subject of seals had come up, and he glanced from face to face about him. The circle of men who comprised the afterguard of the Pole Star would have supported most any desperate enterprise. None was a young man; all were experienced.

Stirling set down his glass. Marr had stepped toward the after bulkhead of the cabin, and rested his hand on the piano.

A slight bump, as if a small boat had touched the outer run of the ship, sounded, and this was followed by steps on the deck overhead. Voices echoed, and a low call drifted through the open portholes.

The captain turned with a quick jerk and glanced upward, his hand lifted for silence. There came a knocking on an after door. This knocking was repeated.

"Good-night, gentlemen!" Marr exclaimed. "Get to your bunks and turn in. I'll expect you at sunup. We'll sail then!"

Stirling followed the big second mate, who knew the run of the ship. As they stood at last in the waist where the shadow of the dark deck house lay across the planks, two riding lights shone through the mist, and a flare marked the cap of the rakish funnel. High steam was in the Pole Star's boilers.

"Who came aboard?" asked Stirling with directness.

Cushner gripped his palms, gulped, and stroked his long, pointed beard, then turned and stared at the low rail which was over the break of the quarter-deck.

"A passenger!" he said.

"A passenger?"

"Sure! Didn't you hear the voice? It was a woman's. At least, it sounded that way to me. They're always bad luck at sea."

"I've heard tell they are," said Stirling.