In a maze of doubt and resolution Stirling stared out over the dark harbour and saw that the band of outcasts had reached the shelving beach and were making preparations to swim to the ship.

He turned away and glanced toward the locked door. The sentry stirred restlessly; his gun's butt was lifted and dropped to the deck. A hacking cough sounded.

Steps glided across the poop from the forward rail to the cabin companion; a slide shot back; the sentry called and was answered. Then a key clicked in the lock of the door, and Marr stood in the gloom. Back of the little captain loomed two of the galley crowd. There was no mercy in their hard, level glances.

"Come on, Stirling," said the captain. "Step out and come with us. You're on trial. Search him, men."

Stirling backed step by step to the bunk, and secured the tiny revolver firmly in his palm. His broad thumb pressed through the trigger guard, and the feel of the cold metal decided him. He folded his arms, thrust the gun through to his skin, and allowed it to drop down.

The search, as Marr switched on the electric light, was done in haste. A Kanaka harpooner ran clumsy hands over Stirling's pockets. He turned and shook his head.

"Me find nothing."

"Bring him to the galley!" Marr ordered. "Watch him, too."

The sentry brought up the rear. Stirling breathed with deep intakes of the keen air as he crossed the quarter-deck and descended the lee-poop ladder. He entered the galley cabin with his head thrown back and his eyes blazing.

Whitehouse sat at the head of the table, and about the mate was gathered all of the afterguard and three of the crew. They had been drinking from square faces of gin. The empty bottles and glasses littered the sea racks; sour limes were scattered about.

The two engineers sat in one corner of the cabin with their feet sprawled along the deck and their eyes bleared and baleful. They had been loudest in calling for the death of Stirling, since the seal pelts within the forehold of the Pole Star constituted a king's ransom. Each man's share would be well up in the thousands. They saw no reason for taking the slightest chances.

Baldwin leered at the Ice Pilot and nudged his companion. "Shootin' is too good," Baldwin said. "I'd like to put the squealer in a fire box and turn on forced draft—if we had forced draft."

Stirling faced the two men with composure. The possession of the little revolver, the knowledge that a hungry, ragged horde was even then approaching the ship, held him confident. Much might happen within the space of minutes. The drunken afterguard would be no match for the outcasts.

Marr cleared his throat, moved to the door, and, closing it, turned with sudden fire and anger. "We've been talking all of an hour," he said, bitterly. "Time's up! It'll be daybreak before we do anything. We're all together in this. What do you say we take a vote and decide. There's just two things to do to him—cast him ashore, or drop him overboard."

"And if you drop that lad," said Whitehouse, "see that there is a blym big anchor spliced to 'is legs. 'E's a water dog, besides being a hard hitter. 'E's dangerous—'e his!"

"Him good man—dead!"

Stirling turned and faced a Kanaka harpooner. "What have I ever done to you?" he asked. "You know me. I've always treated you boys right. Remember the Beluga and the Karluk and the Norwhale? You forget easy. You've been filled with gin, and you are not yourself."

"Me like hear 'em talk," the Kanaka said, with a sheepish grin.

Marr saw the drift of affairs and assumed swift control. Stirling was well thought of among the natives of the Siberian shore and the islands of the Pacific. The simple-minded Kanakas could be easily influenced.

"Have done!" the little skipper exclaimed. "If you're all for marooning him, I'm satisfied. But——"

The pause was doubly suggestive. Marr glanced at the two engineers and Whitehouse. "You know the consequences," Marr said. "This fellow will bob up some day with all our names and with two or three revenue men behind him. There's no getting away from that fact. It may be in Shanghai and it may be in Frisco."

"Or Liverpool," Whitehouse suggested. "I'm going to Liverpool and Birkenhead when I get the bloomin' pile from the pelties. What's to prevent 'im bobbin' hup there?"

"Nothing!" said Marr.

"Then let's take a deuced vote. I 'ate's to do hit, but I votes for walkin' the plank."

"Same here," said the two engineers in one voice.

"You, Crinko?"

The Kanaka's face softened as he leered at Marr, and the bronze of his sea-beaten features took on a yellowish tinge. He turned and smiled openly toward Stirling, who stood with folded arms and the weight of his body resting on the balls of his feet.

"Me like 'em," the native said. "Me no vote. He good man—sometimes."

Marr caught the note in the simple tones and frowned. He felt himself slipping. There were two more Kanakas in the cabin who would follow the big harpooner; the three together might prove troublesome.

"You're out!" Marr snapped. "Now the next. How do you vote, Slim?"

Slim was the leader of the stokehold and engine-room crew, which was entirely under the influence of the two engineers. Marr smiled as six cinder rats and oilers stood up from the seats they had taken about the table and voted for Stirling's death. Each man had reached for a drink of gin as his name was called.

"That almost settles it," whispered Whitehouse, drunkenly. "Old horse, you're gone. Hit's a 'ard, 'ard thing to do but we——"

"But you're not going to do it!" broke in Stirling, backing toward the door and crouching with his hand toward his right shoe. "You're only drunk and full of false courage!"

The blaze that sprang from Stirling's eyes simmered and darted across the smoke-filled room. Each man felt the sudden power that flashed at him; each leaned away for a second.

"Get back!"

Stirling crouched lower and shelved forward his massive shoulders. The bulk of him seemed to fill the room. He was more than a fighting match for the entire crew. They knew it with dawning intuition.

Marr slyly placed a cool hand within the inner pocket of his pea-jacket, and was drawing a gun when Stirling leaped the distance, hooked his right elbow, and uppercut with vicious force. The blow would have lifted the cabin deck. It hurled Marr over the table, and laid him across the planks where he dropped unconscious.

"Now the next!" shouted Stirling, backing away and lowering his fists to his knees. "The next! Come on!"

Baldwin, the engineer, watched the Ice Pilot's eyes, and in them he saw the dying fire of rage turn to cool calculation. It was like gazing at horizon-down ice, as the steely glint changed to cold gray. But the glance was over the heads of the seamen who leaned upon the table. It was toward on open porthole.

Some intuition, stronger than the desire to murder, swept the crew. They turned as one man and followed Stirling's steady gaze. They dropped their chins and stared out through the porthole.

"By the jumpin' bowheads!" Whitehouse screamed. "By Heaven, mates. Look! Look!"

Framed by the dull brass was the face of a whiskered Russian whose small eyes surveyed the cabin greedily. A crash sounded at the door, shouts rolled through the iron of the ship, and a grim struggle was begun at once. The Pole Star had been captured by revolutionists.