Pressing the glove within the pocket of his pea-jacket, Stirling strode to the waist of the Pole Star. From this position he glanced upward at the quarter-deck, which was deserted.

The soft aroma of the perfume struck to his nostrils and he searched his brain for the events which led up to the dainty offering tossed down to him.

Marr and Whitehouse knew the secret of the after cabin of the whaler. They never had given any sign that another shared the meals and splendid staterooms with them. This other had been brought upon the voyage against her will—Stirling remembered the sob, and the lone figure upon the poop when they had tied to the North pack. He pieced together the few observations he had made, and they all led to one conclusion: a dainty woman, who closely resembled the skipper in height and weight, was aboard the Pole Star. She had made the first advance to him. Others might follow.

He rounded the shadow of the galley house and stared at the frowning headland of Indian Point, then turned and glanced out over the waters of the Bering Strait. The ice had gone south from around the base of the headlands. The road to the Arctic was open.

He heard then, above the snoring of the natives who were sleeping upon the foreward deck, the low boom of a distant cannon. It was repeated. A ship of some kind was signalling to leeward.

Searching the sea, Stirling strained his eyes without discovering sign of smoke or sail. The night was starlit and strangely warm. The glimmering waters of the Bering to the southward hung like a burnished mirror. An early sun was starting to swing its upward arc, and a pink flush made visible the far-off land of Alaska.

Again the sound of cannon came to Stirling. It stirred the natives and brought the lone anchor watch around in his position. He stared at Stirling.

"A ship to leeward," said the Ice Pilot. "Keep your eyes peeled. She's a long ways off."

The seaman went to the rail and leaned over it. He was in that position when Stirling opened the door of his cabin and stepped inside. He switched on the light, removed the glove from his pocket, and touched it to his wide nostrils. He sensed the perfume with throbbing heart. Feeling the rush of blood to his face, he turned with a guilty start and placed the glove within an inlaid sextant box. The closing of the lid sealed his purpose to stand by the woman who was aft.

Morning dawned at an Arctic hour, and the white light crept through the open porthole of Stirling's cabin. He rose and dressed, emerging to the deck with a wide yawn. The striking bell told him that he had not slept more than two hours.

A seaman brushed by him and hurried forward to where the natives were standing on the higher coign of vantage which marked the forepeak. All eyes were turned out over the swiftly running Strait, where a two-funnel light cruiser cutter plowed with a bone at her stem. She carried no flag, and the signals set to her bridge halyards were in an unknown code.

Whitehouse glided to Stirling's side. The mate was tensely agitated; he sputtered and stuttered. "Bly me," he said, "what's she doing 'ere?"

"Light cruiser," said Stirling, thoughtfully. "An American—or British. She's just this side the Diomedes. She did not see us."

Whitehouse twisted his loose lips into a purse, and stroked his long, red nose.

Stirling widened his eyes. A dark plume of smoke was all that remained to mark the ship. This plume stretched along the eastern horizon, then faded and paled in the sun's first rays.

Marr called from aft. Whitehouse turned with a guilty start, hurried along the weather side of the ship, and mounted to the poop.

He returned within a few minutes and touched Stirling on the arm. "Skipper wants to see you," he said. "It's blym important."

Stirling glanced about as he went aft. The ship lay deep within the shadow of the Point. Her deck forward was covered with natives and trade stuff. The crew had brought out all of their red underwear and slop-chest stuff in a search for bargains, and their voices were mingled with the clatter of native maids and hunters.

"What did you make of that cutter?" asked Marr as Stirling reached the poop.

"American or British. Going into the Arctic on some mission. I don't believe she saw us."

"How was that?" Marr was plainly nervous.

"We were well under the headland with no lights or canvas showing. We were in such a position that she could be seen without her seeing us. At least, that is my opinion, Mr. Marr."

The little captain toyed with the buttons of his pea-jacket. "That sounds reasonable," he said. "Why is she up here?"

"I don't know."

"Did you ever see cruisers up here before?"

"Only once. That was the old Bainbridge."

"What brought her to these waters?"

"Seal poachers!"

Stirling weighed his words and shot them directly at Marr, then watched their effect like a gunner watches a shot go home. Marr dropped his hand from his buttons and paled slightly.

"Did she get them?" he asked.

"She certainly did! She also removed Captains Jones and Priestly from the Spouter and the brig Belvidere. Both captains were trading whisky for bone; there is a law up here that men should not do that!"

Again Stirling watched the effect of his words. Marr had many barrels of cheap trade whisky aboard the Pole Star, and already had sent some ashore.

"That will be all," said the skipper with a quick frown. "You are too confounded personal! Haven't I a right to ask you a few questions? Who's captain of this ship?"

"Captains are not immune from certain laws. One law applies to all men. You cannot trade rotten whisky with natives. You cannot rob them of their bone for a barrel of water and alcohol. You cannot raid rookeries and get away with it. That cruiser is the answer. You have escaped so far. You may not be so lucky next time."

Marr wheeled with a vicious oath. "Get forward!" he said. "Get where you belong. You ought to join some of these canting missionary schools. There's one or two I'd like to drop you at."

Stirling paused on the first poop step and closed his fists, but opened them again and went on down to the deck, moving slowly forward to where the crew and natives were trading. He singled out the Diomede Islander who had disposed of most of his sealskin boots.

"When do you go back?" he asked, guardedly.

The native tapped the rail with his pipe and filled its bowl with a pinch of cut plug. He then broke off a match from a block and scraped it carefully upon the deck, straightened, and drew in five deep breaths before the tobacco was consumed, and he answered.

"Pretty soon, now," he said, replacing the pipe in his deerskin coat, and glancing through puffed eyes at the sea in the direction of the Lesser Diomede. "Me take umiak and trade stuff and wife and little ones and me go."

"Do you remember old Hank Peterson?"

"Me savvy him. All the same whaling captain."

"Big captain!" said Stirling, with a smile. "You see him this season?"

"Yes! Me see him. He always stops for boots."

"You give him something for me?"

"Yes; I give."

Stirling hurried into his cabin and tore a leaf from an ancient log book. Upon this he wrote a message to Peterson which he felt was certain to be delivered by the faithful Diomede chief.

The message concerned the Seal Islands and the danger of a raid being made against them.

Notify any revenue cutters or cruisers,

Stirling commanded.

The native chief took the scrap of paper, glanced about in caution, and crammed it into a bead-woven poke wherein were his most valuable possessions. "Me give 'em!" he declared, positively. "White captain, he get maybe day or two. Plenty whale ships come now."

Stirling was satisfied with his messenger. The chief departed from the Pole Star's side after bundling aboard his umiak all of his trade stuff and relatives. These last were seventeen in number, and the skin boat was deep enough in the sea to suggest that a catastrophe would happen before the Lesser Diomede was reached.

The last sight of the chief, however, was a reassuring one to Stirling. The faithful native had skilfully risen in the bow of the umiak, steadied his short legs, and taken out his beaded poke. This he waved overhead, being careful not to capsize the laden boat.

Stirling had answered by lifting his cap and holding it aloft, then the boat was paddled around a rocky point. Other umiaks and kayaks followed. Many of the natives went ashore, taking the stuff they had bought; the few that remained were aft with Marr. One was singing a drunken song which never before had been heard on land or sea.

Eagan stepped to Stirling's side as the last notes of this song floated down the deck.

"Booze!" said the seaman, laconically.

"Alcohol!" exclaimed Stirling. "These natives were all right until the white men came. They hunted and fished and lived simple lives."

Eagan smiled. "What are you going to do about this Siberian bunch?" he asked. "The U. S. A. has no jurisdiction over here."

"It has! Russia is not to blame. It isn't Russian whalers and traders who do the mischief."

"Forget the preaching," said Eagan with Frisco slang. "Keep your opinions to yourself, Stirling. The day for booze in the United States seems to be about over, anyway. Just now——"

The seaman's voice trailed off into silence. He thrust out a strong jaw, drilled Stirling with a meaning glance, then was gone with a swift turn across the deck.

Stirling was still thinking of the whisky; like all strong natures, he dwelt too long on one subject.

He moved to the rail and leaned his elbows upon the chains where they were spliced to the shrouds and standing rigging. He swept the native village with a painstaking glance; it was not the same as first he had known it. The igloos back in the valley, which was still crusted with winter snow, were few and small in dimensions. The frame shacks and rude tents of the summer village bore the certain stamp of neglect and carelessness. Dogs hunted about for scraps of meat. Children in trade calico played with a listless air. The umiaks and kayaks were patched and broken.

Stirling frowned. Other villages along the Siberian and Alaskan shores were similarly stamped. They had been touched and polluted by the influence of those whalers who found it easier to allow the natives to secure the whalebone than it was to go out to sea and get it.

A sharp command broke through Stirling's thoughts, and he turned from his view of the village. Marr stood at the weather poop steps.

The little skipper pointed toward the waist of the whaleboat. "Lower that!" he snapped. "You and Eagan and about two seamen drop up to East Cape. See if there's any bone there."

Stirling answered the skipper's command with a slow glance, moved not too hastily toward the whaleboat, and climbed inside. From this position, he called Eagan and two seamen who were idling on the forepeak.

The boat was cleared of lashings and lowered, with Stirling in the bow and Eagan in the stern, then the seamen came down the dangling falls and dropped aboard. They thrust out two long oars and shoved the whaleboat from the ship.

Stirling glanced at the telltale on the Pole Star, then motioned to up the single sail and lower the centerboard. The light craft sailed into the wind and canted far to leeward, gliding from the shadow of the headland as the sun swung over the shoulder of Siberia.

East Cape was reached soon after dark. Stirling sprang ashore and shouted; then repeated the call. Lights shone from the windows set in the summer shacks.

A pack of shaggy dogs, followed by three natives, came out and stared at the whaleboat. One dog crept down the beach and sniffed Stirling's native boots, then raised his snout and called a wolf's long howl of welcome.

A rude door was opened in the larger shack, and the chief stood revealed in the glow of the inner fire, about which native women were squatted. Stirling advanced and held out his hand, touching the chief on the shoulder. "You remember me," he said. "Me ice pilot of the Beluga. You got any whalebone to trade?"

The chief's face cleared, and he voiced a noisy welcome. He had no whalebone; furs he showed and also tusks. Some of these were carved with running men and spouting whales.

It was after dawn when Stirling gave the order to run out the whaleboat and make for the Pole Star. The chief, his family, and a score of natives waved a silent farewell, standing on the beach until the boat turned a ledge of rock and vanished into the smooth waters of the Strait.

Stirling was steering as the light boat swung under the Pole Star's stern and glided alongside. He glanced up at the overhanging poop where lights showed through the portholes. Out of one an arm reached and waved, and he heard a low-voiced warning. It was muffled and indistinct, but it was a girl's tones which warned. He had but time to swing the tiller when the boat scraped against the whaler's sheathing and Eagan caught a dangling fall.