Marvelling at the turn of events, Stirling groped about the crow's-nest and found his twelve-diameter glasses, which had been used in whale hunting. He turned their screw, adjusted the focus for his eyes, and swept the open Gulf of Anadir and the Bering beyond the jib boom. No sign of ship or sail showed. Ice was here and there in dotted specks, drifting with the great North current which would reverse its direction and flow back to the Arctic before the month was old.

Noon passed with the Pole Star changing its course degree by degree. Stirling dozed in an erect position. Each time he awoke it was with a guilty start. There was grave danger that some of the Russians would mount the shrouds, since they had already been along the yards. The canvas they had set billowed before the breeze and blotted out a full view of the deck.

Stirling thought of the girl who must be with the skipper and the Frisco dock rat. It was evident that Marr had received a crushing blow from the rock hurled by the Russian; the little skipper's face had been white and drawn as he barricaded the hatchway.

Stirling dwelt on thoughts of the girl in a dazed manner. He realized that the situation called for every ounce of his energies, yet he would have given a year of life for a nap in security.

Afternoon and six bells, which a Russian struck forward, brought sight of the open sea rimmed by a dark line to southward which marked the island of St. Lawrence. Stirling raised his glasses and swept the horizon to the north and east. He was on the point of lowering them from his eyes when a speck stood out with tiny distinctness. He focused for this speck, and pieced together detail by detail, with splendid sight. He smiled slightly as he dropped his hands to his sides and glanced down at the deck. The revenue cutter Bear had already sighted the Pole Star. She was bearing to the north so as to head off the ship. There seemed no escape, for the land on either coast ran into a funnel whose snout was the Bering Strait.

"Saved!" exclaimed Stirling. "I'm saved and she's saved. I think we are saved—the girl and I. But Heaven help the others on this unfortunate ship."

Sincerely hoping for capture, Stirling prayed silently, raising the glasses for a second sweep of the sea to the north and east. The speck had grown into a trailing pencil of smoke which lay athwart the slaty sky.

Glancing over the crow's-nest, Stirling watched the Russian leader on the poop. He saw a chart being unrolled like a huge rug, and two Russians followed a pointing finger. The leader rose from a crouched position and started to give an order to the wheelsman, then this order died in his throat. A cry rolled along the ship, and was repeated in guttural accents. The revolutionists gathered on the forepeak had discovered the smoke over the starboard rail, and pointed and muttered as they realized its import.

A bell clanged as the leader reached for the engine-room telegraph and set it for full speed. Seamen of doubtful ability swarmed aloft and started unfurling the upper canvas; three reached the fore-topgallant yard and went out on the footrope with clumsy feet.

They were so near to Stirling he could have shot them from the spars. The Pole Star canted and drove north along the meridian line, its course parallel to that of the fast-coming Bear.

The hour that followed was filled with mingled hopes and fears. The revenue cutter had been rated a speedy ship by whalers who knew it, but it was two knots slower than the Pole Star. This fact came home to Stirling with the force of a blow. The canvas which the Russians set had aided in the long running. The Bear was not closing the gap to any extent, but held doggedly on.

Stirling studied the distance, saw that it was a losing game, then reached in his pocket for the revolver. He could hit the wheelsman, who was standing on the poop, and this would cause the ship to sheer. He took slow aim. The shot he fired missed the wheelsman's head by inches; the second shot splintered a spoke; the third caught the wheelsman in the left shoulder. He released his hold and cried a warning.

The crew swarmed up the poop steps, glared toward the crow's-nest, and set about building a barricade before the wheel. This was done as Stirling ceased his firing; their number was too great to accomplish anything of lasting moment. The cartridges in the tiny gun were running low, and the bullets were of too small a calibre to slay save when they struck a vital spot.

A second idea came to him as he pocketed the gun. Reaching downward he searched for a knife, which should have been in the binocular case of the crow's-nest. With it he could cut the lines leading to all the sails on the foremast, which ran by the crow's-nest and up the topmast. The knife was missing!

"I'm beat!" he said. "The Bear will never catch us!"