Suddenly Stirling ceased speaking and strode to the rail, glancing keenly under the shelter of his right palm.

"Speck in sight!" he called. "Looks like a ship headed this way! Make it out, Cushner?"

The second mate strained his eyes, then mopped them with his sleeve and tried again. "Not yet," he said. "You have fine sight. Where away?"

"About two points off the bow. There she is. See her? A brig, I think. See the smoke?"

Cushner nodded with a sudden jerk of his chin. "Just a smudge. She's hull down!"

It was a full half hour later before Stirling made out the Japanese flag which fluttered at the stern of the brig. He called out her nationality then swung and glanced toward the poop and the wheelman. Marr stood under the shelter of the rail with both elbows resting upon the canvas and a pair of twelve-diameter glasses focused ahead. He lowered these glasses, reached for the engine-room telegraph, and the throbbing of the Pole Star's screws died to a quiver. The yards were braced back and the whaler came up into the wind with scant headway. This brought the Japanese brig upon the starboard waist.

The funnel of the strange ship belched forth a volcano of smoke which could come only from Japanese coal. She wallowed across the sea and came up into the wind on the same tack as the Pole Star was headed.

A longboat was dropped awkwardly. Seamen to the number of four swarmed overside and waited for a fifth figure to descend a ladder lowered for his benefit. The boat sheered from the brig and danced across the waves under the swing of four oars which were smartly handled.

Penyan Maru was the name Stirling made out on the brig as it hove to a double cable's length away. A greater contrast to the Pole Star could not have been fashioned. Built in Japan before the war, the brig still carried some of the top-hamper which rightly belonged to a junk. Her yards were canted, her masts sloped forward instead of aft, her standing rigging was loose and weather-rotted.

Along the rail of the Penyan Maru ran a line of pigeon-blue boats which were too large for dories, too small for whaleboats. She bore the unmistakable evidence of a Japanese sealer, a vampire of the sea—as much an object of suspicion to every revenue cutter as a jailbird would be to a self-respecting policeman.

The four seamen who rowed the longboat lifted their oars smartly enough as they rounded under the starboard rail of the Pole Star. Whitehouse, on the poop, lowered a bosn's ladder, and up this climbed the figure of a man who would have attracted attention on any ocean.

He was fat and yellow; his moon-broad face was stabbed here and there with tiny bristles like the nose of a walrus; his slanted eyes glittered and beamed as he raised himself over the rail, took Whitehouse's hand, and sprang to the deck of the Pole Star. He advanced to Marr's side with a rolling waddle, and the two men clasped in friendly grasp. It was evident to the watchers on the whaler that they were friends.

They stood a moment on the deck, then Marr pointed toward the north and east. The Japanese followed his direction, smiled blandly, and whispered something into the little skipper's ear. They went below by way of the cabin companion, the slide of which they closed after them.

Stirling glanced keenly at Cushner, walked to the rail, and leaned over with his eyes fixed upon the dingy sides and crazy rigging of the sealer. He dropped his glance and studied the four of a crew who were alongside the whaler's run, just aft the break of the poop. These seamen made no effort to communicate in any way with the crew of the Pole Star. They sat silently waiting for their master to return.

Cushner rolled to Stirling's side and leaned his elbows on the rail. He, too, glanced at the small boat and its contents.

"A sealer's crew," he said. "Them's Japanese sealers. See the rifles and the clubs. They ain't found in an ordinary boat. They're for pelagic sealing, or any other kind. Nice-lookin' outfit."

"Efficient and minding their own business!" declared Stirling.

"What did you think of the emperor who came aboard? He was welcome!"

Stirling turned and glanced toward the poop. "Sam," he said, "there's more things on these seas than we will ever know. That brig is a supply ship of some kind. If not that, it is going to meet us at some later date and take off our trade stuff."

"Also seal pelts."

"Yes; seal pelts if they're secured in an honest manner. I don't care where Marr disposes of his catch, as long as the catch is square and aboveboard!"

"Here comes the walrus again. Look how he's smiling. They must have had a nip of gin. Marr is rubbing his hands like as if he'd made a good bargain."

The Japanese waddled to the rail, climbed upward, and descended the ladder to the waiting small boat. Marr stood over him and cast off the painter, and the boat sprang away from the sheer of the Pole Star. It danced across the sea, vanished under the Penyan Maru's counter, and was hoisted aboard.

A plume of black Japanese coal smoke shot up from the rusty funnel. The yards were squared and the sealer wallowed toward the north and west, vanishing in a cloud of its own making.

A bell later Marr gave the order for a change of course and reached for the engine-room telegraph. The screw thrashed; the crew sprang to weather and lee braces. The Pole Star started back over the old pathway on the trackless ocean. Her compass point had been given as east.

It was a hushed company that gathered about the table that night in the steerage of the Pole Star. The change of course, the gamming by the Japanese sealer, the mystery of the skipper's actions—all these drove silence into the mates' hearts.

Stirling and Cushner soon departed and left the first and second engineer to their thoughts.

The two seamen, who had found a tie in common, strode to the forepeak of the whaler, lighted their pipes from the same match, and stared out over the dark velvet of the North Pacific.

Cushner dragged on his stem for a long five minutes. He was awakened to speech by the striking of the ship's bell forward when the lookout lifted a marlinespike from the belfry and chimed two short strokes, repeated by two more.

"Four bells!" declared the Yankee. "She's four bells, Stirling. Four bells, an' we're going back. Wouldn't wonder if we make California for our first landfall."

Stirling squared his shoulders, removed his pipe from his mouth, and stared at the glowing bowl. He pressed the coals down with his broad thumb, wheeled sharply, and glared aft. His face hardened as he made out a shadow on the poop, and tried to discern if it were Marr. A swing of the ship, the lowering of the mainsail at the sheet, blotted out his view.

He turned and gripped Cushner's arm. "We're not going to Frisco," said the Ice Pilot. "We're headed for Dutch Pass and the Bering Sea. We're a point south of the true course for that, but Marr is taking advantage of the drift."

"Why didn't he go through one of the outer straits? There's plenty by the Rat Group."

"Perhaps he wants to coal at Unalaska. He could take aboard fifty tons there."

"How about the ice?"

"It hasn't cleared yet. It lies about ten knots to the south'ard of the Pribilofs. It'll break up and clear within a week, though. It always does."

Cushner nodded. He held a wholesome respect for Stirling's ice knowledge. The pilot had no peer when it came to working through the loose floes or finding a lane to the northward. These lanes were both dangerous and deceptive, and many led to thicker floes and barren ice.

"We'll soon be in the ice?" asked the second mate.

"Five days, allowing for a day's stop at Unalaska. First comes the light floes and the whale slick. Afterward is the barrier line which stretches to the Pole. It starts to open and break. Through these lanes the whales go into the Arctic. There's usually a big jam at Bering Strait. The current sets east by north in summer and south by west in the fall. There are no bergs north of the Aleutians or west of Point Barrow. Leastwise, I never saw any!"

"People always talk about the bergs of the Arctic."

Stirling nodded. "I know that," he said with positive tones. "The reason is not hard to find. There's bergs where there's glaciers. There's any number of big fellows on the lower Alaskan coast. These bergs melt in the warm Japan Current. The harbour of Unalaska and the strait at Dutch Pass never freezes. That's on account of the same current."

"But the Arctic bergs, Stirling?"

"There's very few in the western Arctic. There's no glaciers along the Northern coast of Alaska and Canada. There's a few on the Siberian coast. The land is all low. The big floes—some of them a century old—resemble small bergs. That's the reason for the mistake made by Northern travellers."

Stirling turned and tapped his pipe against the rail then pocketed it and glanced aft. There was no sign on the poop of any watcher save the wheelsman, whose eyes were glued ahead.

Cushner yawned. "It's Whitehouse's watch," he said. "I'm going to turn in. Good-night!"

Stirling followed the second mate into the galley cabin, and climbed into his bunk with a tired glance at the compass point. The Pole Star was headed on the same course as given when they left the Japanese sealer. The wind had veered and now swung from over the Aleutian Islands—fifty miles to the northward. It was slightly tempered with ice. Stirling closed his porthole and rolled over to sleep.

He was awakened at midnight, and the change in the watch, by Cushner. The second mate held a cautious finger over his mouth as he finished shaking Stirling's shoulder.

"Come on deck," the Yankee whispered. "Put on some clothes and hurry. I got to relieve Whitehouse."

Stirling rolled from his bunk, stood swaying on the deck, and drew on part of his clothes. He finished by buttoning a great sea coat about his sturdy form and clapping a cap down over his ears. Already the temperature had fallen to a marked degree. He emerged to the waist of the whaler and stood breathing great gulps of Arctic-tinged air which sent the wine of living through his veins. He felt more of a man than he had since his last venture in the Bering.

Cushner touched his elbow. "Come forward," the mate said, softly. "Get under the lee of the deck house and then the foresail. Don't make any noise."

The watch on deck had surged forward to the capstan, and some of the watch below were climbing up through the booby hatch. Others were gathered about the form of the sailor who had been in the Frisco room. He lay across the soiled planks of the forecastle, his arms stretched out, his legs extended and resting on the edge of a lower bunk.

Stirling brushed aside the seamen who had gathered about the booby hatch. The Ice Pilot descended backward and stood in the gloom of the forecastle. A single electric globe was hung over a molasses barrel at the heel of the foremast. Its light was far too pale to bring out the details.

"What happened?" asked Stirling, grimly.

A dock rat, who had been shamming sickness during the voyage, thrust out a frowsy head from the forepeak and said: "The crew beat him up. They say he's a government spy. They say he's goin' to queer the skipper's game with th' seals. He looks it—he does!"

Stirling stooped and felt of the sailor's wrist. He examined a bruise on the right temple then straightened and glanced up through the booby hatch toward Cushner.

"Go aft," he said, "and tell Mr. Marr to give you the medicine chest. Tell him that——What does this fellow call himself?"

"Eagan," said the dock rat; "Mike Eagan, so he says, Mr. Stirling."

"Tell Mr. Marr that a seaman named Eagan was struck by a block. Don't tell him what happened—yet. I'm going to look out for Eagan! If he represents the United States he has got to be protected north of 53° as well as south of that latitude!"

Cushner hurried aft and mounted the lee poop steps.