Rough-garbed and soiled from his efforts, Stirling led the way aft to the large cabin of the Pole Star, then turned and held the curtain back for Helen Marr. He bowed as she passed through and stood staring at the prone form of the Frisco dock rat.

"I'll attend to him, miss," declared Stirling. "Did he insult you?"

The girl flushed slightly, but there was an assurance in her manner that bespoke the daughter of the sea. She braced her slight form by leaning against the table and turned to the Ice Pilot. "No; he didn't insult me," she said. "He couldn't. But he is not a gentleman and never can be one."

Stirling stepped over the deck and reached downward, coiled his arms about Slim, and raised him from the planks.

"Hold the curtain," he said, softly. "I'll put this fellow out of harm's way. There's a cabin just made for him, where we can feed him and watch him."

Helen Marr stared at Stirling as he shifted his burden, smiled slowly through the grime of his lips, and staggered with Slim through the curtain and down the alleyway to the cabin where Whitehouse and Marr had kept him prisoner.

He was back in three minutes with a key held between his fingers. "You take this," he said with concern. "Take it and keep it. I'm going to look around and find some water and a razor. I expect we're going to be together for some time, as the revolutionists are heading east. I don't want to frighten you with my appearance, Miss Marr."

"There's running water and razors in uncle's cabin."

Stirling stiffened and passed his hand over the stubble of his cheeks, removing his cap as he asked, "So he was your uncle?"

"Yes; Mr. Marr was my uncle. He brought me along on this trip because there was nobody to look after me ashore. I was at boarding school in Concord when he came for me."

Stirling glanced at the girl with open sympathy, and she returned his look, then blushed slightly, and moved away from the table. The key he had given her dropped to the deck. She recovered it and brushed back her hair as she rose.

"I'm sorry he died," Stirling managed to say. "I'm sorry. But I don't think he was doing right in bringing you North, and I don't think the seal raid was right. You see I'm plain-spoken. I'm not used to young ladies."

A laugh echoed through the cabin. "You're a sight!" said Helen Marr. "We'll get along. I don't fear anything at all now. Those awful Russians are afraid of you."

Stirling glanced at the barricaded deck light, and listened to the swift rush of the ship through the smooth sea. A slight chill was in the air, which spoke of ice fields to the north and east.

He dropped his glance and swept the cabin. The bomb gun on the table was a weapon in a thousand, and with it it would be possible to hold the cabin against a large number of men.

"The thing we have to find out," he said, "is how to stop the ship before we go too far. We're off Herschel Island now. Another day's mad steaming will wreck us sure. I don't want to see you wrecked."

The girl pointed toward an after doorway. "That's uncle's cabin," she said. "Go shave and fix yourself. Then we'll talk about things. I don't think being wrecked is so terrible."

Stirling shook his head and moved toward the cabin. He opened the door, turned, and glanced backward, then went inside with the girl's face stamped upon his memory. She was full of fire and youth, the voyage of the Pole Star had been an adventure for her. The death of Marr had not saddened her. He found soap and a razor resting behind the washstand, and with these started to make himself presentable.

Strength and youth came through his features as he scraped and hacked; simple in all his motions, he found himself for the first time in a great hurry. The girl had appealed with elfin charm, though he knew no more of women than landsmen know of the mysteries of the sea.

After he had finished shaving, a good wash in cold water, a swift parting of his hair, and a borrowed necktie from Marr's collection, caused him to smile at his reflection in the glass. He stood the proper figure of a man—four square to wind, weather, adversity, or the revolutionists.

The situation was desperate enough to call for all the strength of Stirling's mind and muscle. The ship was heading due east by the meridian, or north by magnetic compass, and the true Pole was being thrown over the ship's port waist like a sinister shadow. Ahead lay the Magnetic Pole and the land where Franklin and his brave men had perished in the search for the northwest passage.

Stirling looked from the mirror to the open porthole of the cabin, and saw the low-lying land which marked the American continent. The water was muddy and filled with driftwood, which indicated that Herschel Island and the mouth of the Mackenzie River were being passed.

"Our last wintering place," he said, with his face pressed to the porthole. "Yonder she is. There's scant chance from now on."

He turned and glanced about the cabin. A telltale compass over a brass-bound bunk showed that the course read north. It changed a point as the Pole Star swung and dashed by a field of ancient ice. Then the ship steadied, the engines clanked, and steps sounded overhead. The revolutionists had gathered for a consultation.

Stirling opened the door of the cabin, stepped out, and faced Helen Marr who stood by the baby-grand piano which was lashed to the after part of the bulkhead.

"We're off Herschel Island," he said, running his fingers over his face in anxiety. "I'm sorry for your sake. There are no winter quarters beyond the Island that I know of; it's all lowland and dangerous anchorage. We're in for it!"

The girl inclined her head and listened, then pointed upward. A wan, tired smile, that threw tiny wrinkles in the corners of her mouth, held Stirling's eyes. She seemed suddenly older to him, and he wondered at this change as he waited for her to speak.

"They are above," she said at last. "Do you think they are plotting to capture you?" Her voice had changed, and Stirling detected a note of concern. He looked up and caught her glance full upon his own. She bit her lip and flushed.

He tried to stammer an answer, but none came that fitted the question. A gulf had suddenly opened between them, and her eyes no longer held the shimmer they had once contained. She had stared at him as if he had been a ghost or spectre from another world, her manner suddenly grown cold.

"What did I do?" he exclaimed. "Why do you look at me that way?"

"Because—why, because I thought you were an old man. You're not!"

Stirling straightened, and he felt his heart throbbing. "I'm forty-six," he said. "That's old, isn't it?"

The girl's face dimpled; the lines vanished from her lips and left her openly frank and childish looking. "Forty-six?"

"Going on forty-seven."

"That isn't old. You look so different with a shave and a—wash. I'm going to make you promise one thing."

Stirling was ready to promise any number of things. "What is it?" he asked.

"That from now on you shave every day, and from now on we're—friends."

"I'll promise that!" said Stirling, heartily. "We two are going to see this thing through—as friends. You can trust me! We'll stand guard—watch and watch."