The long Northern day died at last as the Pole Star drove south and west through the ice-flecked waters of the Bering Sea.

Night shaded overhead and the wind sank to a following breeze which flapped the sails on the polished spars. Steam was got up in the boilers, the screw thrashed, and the ship plunged on—her sharp stem cutting through the drift ice like a knife going through thin paper.

Into the upward swing of the Arctic sun the whaler steered. Fog drifted upon them, and when it lifted there was exposed a wide waste of sullen waters upon the surface of which seal and walrus sported. Once a killer whale attracted attention. Some of the green crew called "A blow!"

Marr knew better than this. He urged the ship on as if it were carrying the mail for Southern waters. He stood the watch with Whitehouse, and both seamen had received Eagan's report that Stirling was resting easily and was making no trouble.

They consulted as to the best course to pursue in regard to Stirling. Marr was for locking him securely in the chain-locker—this was a tiny space forward the forecastle. Whitehouse, who had taken a liking to Stirling, admiring his prowess with the ice and the conditions met in the Bering, suggested that Eagan should be left in charge of the captive and held responsible. Marr agreed, neither man suspecting that the sailor had any motive in staying near Stirling. Their first suspicion had been forgotten. Eagan had played a difficult part and won his point.

It was on the third day that the Pole Star entered, as dusk crept across the sky, the zone of danger where no ships were allowed at that season of the year, the strictest patrolled patch of water in the world. Seals of the fur-skin variety, which are so valuable and scarce, sported about.

Marr drove on with all lights shaded and a canvas cone capping the Pole Star's funnel and steam pipe. Orders had been given for each man to stand at position. Guns had been laid in the whaleboats, and great oak capstan bars took the place of the whaling gear.

An air of expectancy filled each sailor's breast; the die was cast, and they were close to the great game. Whaling was for old men and weaklings. Stories had been told in the forecastle and steerage concerning the sudden profits of a seal raid. MacLane was cited as an instance of desperate daring and tremendous enterprise, MacLane who had raided both the Copper Group and the Pribilofs in one season. He had brought his schooner into Seattle with her deck planks bulging from the salted skins beneath.

Eagan moved from Stirling's cabin to the forecastle and back again. He had secured a pair of rusty handcuffs with which he made great show of securing the Ice Pilot, where he lay on his back. Now and then one of the galley crowd peered in through the open porthole and reported to the sailors on deck.

A double lookout was maintained from forepeak and quarter-deck, and the horizon was closely scanned by Marr and Whitehouse. The rookeries lay close to the south and west and the ship had been driven toward the northeast point of St. Paul's Island.

Stirling sensed his position by the slowing of the screw and the direction of the slight wind and he reviewed the entire series of events since coming aboard the ship. His head had now cleared, and the slight swelling at the temple was going down under Eagan's skillful treatment.

The situation was desperate enough. Marr had taken the long chance and reached the waters about the rookeries. But two armed ships were known to be in the Bering Sea or the Arctic. One was the revenue cutter Bear; the other, the unknown cruiser which had driven through Bering Strait.

Stirling's anger boiled and simmered as he lay in a handcuffed position and waited for reports from Eagan, who had to be careful. There was scant chance of their ever capturing the ship. Two against forty offered little hope to dwell upon; another method than violence would have to be found.

Eagan came in at one bell before midnight, closed the door, pocketed the keys, then moved over to the porthole and glanced keenly out.

"How're we heading?" whispered Stirling.

"Southwest."

"Dead on St. Paul?"

"She's just been raised from aft. Marr and Whitehouse sent the word forward. The whole tribe of Kanakas, Gay Islanders, dock rats, and cinder-muckers—to say nothing of the two first-class engineers, who ought to know better—are itching to get at the seals. It will be as much as our lives are worth to interfere. Marr has them all worked up."

"Where's the Bear?"

"Heaven only knows! Seagraves, her captain, told me in Frisco that he had an entire ocean to guard. There's the Russian coast and the Kotzebue and Norton Sound."

"That other cruiser?"

"She's helping him out. Likely there's an expedition cast away in the Arctic. The Kadik was reported crushed. The cruiser may have gone through to pick up the survivors."

"Then Marr will succeed?" Stirling hinged himself upward and stared at Eagan.

"Looks that way." Eagan closed his fists and turned from the porthole. "Looks bad," he continued with hard eyes. "At that, Stirling, we've three or four hours yet. Much can happen in that time. The Bear may swing around St. Paul."

"Have you made no plans? The Commission must know that you are on this ship. They will be waiting for word from you."

Eagan smiled despite his doubts. "We're two," he said. "They don't suspect me, and I have a plan. I shall land at the rookeries and try to reach the guard. If I fail, then you can spike the ship in some manner till the Bear is reached by wireless."

Stirling raised his wrists and eyed the handcuffs.

"They're tight," he suggested. "Suppose you let them out a notch. Then, whatever happens to you during the raid, I'll be on deck and active. Who was it threw that belaying pin?"

"Whitehouse."

Stirling made a mental note for future guidance. "Now, Eagan," he continued, "you had better loosen the cuffs and leave me an automatic revolver. I hear the screw slowing. We're right off the rookery. Listen. That's the surf on the beach."

"Worse than that," said the government agent. "There's also the sound of seals barking. Hear them? I wouldn't wonder if they sense what is coming."

The seaman reached downward in the half-light and inserted a key in the handcuff lock. Stirling guided him with cool fingers, and soon the cuffs fitted loosely.

"Now the gun," said Stirling.

Eagan glided to the porthole, glanced shrewdly out, then returned to Stirling's side. "Take mine," the deputy said. "I won't need it. Hide it under your mattress."

The icy coolness in the man's tones steeled Stirling. He lay back as Eagan went across the cabin, opened the door, and stepped swiftly out upon the deck. A lock clicked.

An impending silence lay over the Pole Star. The shuffling of men on deck, the creak of blocks, the straining of falls, told of boats being lowered. Voices were muffled as a light anchor was dropped at the end of a whale line, serving to swing the ship and hold it toward the shelving shore.

Stirling caught the deep roar of the bachelor seals. In fancy he saw the boats glide across the water and grate upon the beach. He saw, in fancy again, the raised capstan bars and the shattered skulls of the prey.

A boat ground against the ship's side, a block creaked, a laugh rang and was stilled. Then footfalls sounded, and the porthole was darkened.

Whitehouse thrust his long nose through the opening and squinted toward Stirling. "You're there," the mate muttered. "Be blym quiet, let me tell you that. It'll all be over in 'alf a hour. Too bad you weren't with us, Stirling."

The Ice Pilot did not answer and the mate's face disappeared from the porthole. Another boat touched the ship's side. Bundles of pelts were dragged to the forehold and dropped downward. Hushed instructions were given to return to the rookery.

Stirling rolled over and felt for the gun under his mattress. Its cold barrel nerved him to rise and sit upon the edge of the bunk. He cocked the trigger and waited, his eyes toward the porthole, then turned and stared at the locked door.

"Time to be doing something," he said, simply. "They're ripping the rookeries wide open, without being discovered. Like as not they've overpowered the native guard. That'll go hard with them later."

He stood erect and worked one hand free from the cuff. Winding the chain about his wrist, he moved toward the porthole and peered out. A black velvet band stretched over the sea, and through it came stars as his eyes accustomed themselves to the view. He stared out over the ship's rail, to where he saw faint white spots which marked the drift ice. Beyond these was a silver running ripple.

The position of the ship with its whale-line anchorage was close to the hidden beach. Stirling sensed the slow rise of the waves, which marked shallow bottom. The idea came to him that if the line were cut which led to the anchor, the Pole Star most certainly would go ashore. Once ashore, the crew would be unable to work her out in time to escape. Eagan could be expected to give some sort of alarm, and the guard on the other islands of the seal group would descend upon them.

"I'll chance it," said Stirling. "Here goes for the door and a rush to the anchor rope. I didn't hear them drop a chain."

He took one step away from the porthole. A gliding foot sounded outside upon the ship's planks, and he stood rigid, then leaned toward the bunk.

The footfall was repeated. It came closer to the corner of the galley house, and a voice sounded from somewhere forward. A rattle of oars swung up the slight breeze, and seals barked from the red shores of the rookery.

"Quiet!"

Stirling touched the side of his bunk with both hands, bent, and prepared to roll over. The handcuff chain clicked metallically.

"Quiet!" The sound was faint and came to him as a warning. He waited, his shoulders lifted with his deep breathing, his eyes fastened upon the velvet circle of the open porthole.

A face came slowly into view like the shadow of the moon crossing the disk of the sun, and Stirling dropped his jaw in wonderment. It was far too soft a face for any of the crew. The eyes that stared in at his were deep blue and trustful.

"Quiet!"

"Yes; yes," he answered, feeling a rush of blood to his cheeks.

"Take this quickly."

Stirling rose by straightening his legs and back and stepped over the floor of his cabin, his unshackled hand reaching out. He touched the edge of the porthole, and his fingers groped outside. They came in contact with a tiny pearl-handled revolver. He drew it in and wondered at its diminutive size.

"Quiet, Mr. Stirling!"

He tossed the revolver to his bunk and turned toward the porthole. A cupid's bow of red lips, through which shone white teeth that met in an even row, greeted him.

"What is it?" he asked, huskily. "What—who are you?"

A pink finger touched the lips so invitingly offered; golden-bronze hair, capped with a tam-o'-shanter, bobbed and moved away, then came again as the blue eyes searched about the gloom of the cabin.

A sound of more oars in locks struck up the wind; a voice warned from the quarter-deck; and a shuffle echoed along the deck in the lee of the galley house.

"Who—why did you come to me?"

The lips closed doubtfully and then opened. "You will know soon enough," said the girl. "I'm going now. Be careful, Mr. Stirling. Be very careful, for my sake. Don't do anything that would endanger your life—or the captain's."

"Are you the captain's——?"

Stirling never finished the question. A white pallor drove the colour from the girl's cheeks, and she was gone even as he stared out through the open porthole. Her footfalls sounded along the deck, died away aft, and there came then the heavier feet of a sailor. He rounded the corner of the galley house, peered over the rail to the north and east, and then strode by Stirling.

A heavy capstan bar was over his shoulder, an open knife gleamed from his belt, his jaw was set and thrust slightly outward. Stirling recognized in him one of the Frisco dock rats who had been most aggressive in the attack when Whitehouse had hurled the belaying pin.

Stirling turned and glanced at the panels of the door; they were not strong. He lifted his shoulder and faced about. He could break to freedom in one bull-like lunge; afterward would come the severing of the anchor line and the casting away of the ship.

He dwelt upon the exact situation and eyed the velvet beyond the porthole. The stars were paling. They had changed from white light points to yellow specks; they swam and danced in the morning's haze. An Arctic sun would soon be leaping the eastern horizon.