The main hold was littered with a maze of boxes, bales, and bundles, the last made up of sealskins roughly bound, with salt sprinkled upon the fleshy side of the pelts. This precaution had been taken by Marr and Whitehouse on the day following the raid.

Stirling paused near where the deck beams allowed a narrow passage through to the lazaret, and under a hatchway which led to the galley house and the cook's quarters. He glanced around and allowed his eyes to accustom themselves to the darkness.

None of the revolutionists had dared follow him down through the main hatch. The sight of the revolver he had flashed at them was a stern reminder, and he felt of this weapon as he waited. He heard the steady clamp of the engines and the calls in Russian as the stokehold crew were urged to greater efforts.

The Pole Star was striking away from Point Barrow, and had sheltered herself in a long lane of ice reaching deep within the North pack. It would be fortunate, indeed, if this lane opened and allowed the ship through to the sea to eastward.

Stirling found a box in the lazaret which had been crashed open by a rude heel, and through the hole in this he drew out a double handful of hard and dry ship's biscuits. He munched on these, and glanced about for water. None was in sight. He found several empty gin cases from which the square faces had been removed; a dark corner of the lazaret was piled with small, strong boxes. The lower tier of these contained bottles of ginger ale and soda. He emptied three bottles of soda, waited a few minutes, and then started drinking the fourth.

The effect was magical. The ship's biscuits, whose food value is high, served to refresh his weary body, and he stared around with some interest in his surroundings.

A stout door, heavily barred by a crossbeam in the bulkhead, indicated the way to the stokehold and the after part of the ship. He moved through the gloom and tested this crossbeam. It could be lifted, but he paused to listen. Clanking doors and scraping shovels on the iron plates of the stokehold marked where the Russians were feeding the Pole Star's fires.

There was no way through to the cabin and the girl save by way of the stokehold and the engine room, and the deck was crowded with alert revolutionists.

Stirling dropped his hand into the side pocket of his pea-jacket and felt the cold assurance of the little revolver's steel. It nerved him as he drew out his hand and lifted the crossbar which the cook had placed in order to prevent a raid on the lazaret.

An opening showed, lurid with furnace fires and hot coals. Three Russians, stripped to the waist, were lounging in one corner of the stokehold, and all were smoking cigarettes made from cut plug and tissue paper. Their attention was on a fourth Russian, who was watching the steam gauge above the central boiler.

Stirling widened the door by a steady pull with his fingers, and stared beyond the Russian to where an opening showed in the bulkhead. This opening marked the way to the engine room and the after part of the ship.

Bunker doors and slides showed to port and starboard, and the coal lay piled where the passers had shovelled it. A Russian tossed away his cigarette, seized a scoop shovel, and stepped to the after door of the forward furnace. The glare which filled the stokehold as he opened the door gave Stirling an opportunity.

Risking all on the venture, he flung wide the bulkhead door which led from the lazaret and dashed across the scattered coal, reaching the opening to a spare bunker on the starboard side of the hold before he was discovered. Then a Russian shouted a warning, and the chief of the stokehold crew swung from the furnaces and stared through the half light.

Stirling brushed aside the lunging form of a revolutionist, and struck a second Russian a swinging blow beneath the ear. Plunging on, he gained the door which led to the engine room as a slice bar was hurled in his direction.

He wheeled at the door and braced himself. The Russian he had struck was slowly rising from the iron plate before the spare bunker, and a form swung from the reflection of light which streamed out of an ash box and lunged forward. Stirling called a warning as he bent, twisted, and worked his way through the bulkhead door until he reached the alleyway which led to the engine room.

Flashing crank shafts and the polished glow of metal blinded him. Men were on the gratings and halfway up the ladder which led to the deck companion. Stirling dodged around the first and second intermediate cylinders, rested a hand on the huge low-pressure cylinder; then he dropped to one knee, squirmed beneath the tail shaft, and started crawling down the shaft alley.

The Russians had been too startled to prevent this manoeuvre, but now they came aft with torches and pinch bars. The glow from the overhead sun which streamed through the deck light brought out the details of the shaft alley as far aft as the second coupling. Behind this was a narrow pit compressed on each side by heavy planking and sloping at the bottom into the fan-shaped overhang of the Pole Star's stern.

Stirling worked his way aft to the thrust bearings, which were three in number. Here the pit was dark and damp, and he turned and glanced forward. The faint light which marked the outlines of the shaft alley grew stronger as he waited.

A burly form moved within the gloom, then another man joined the first Russian. Hammer blows sounded, and the light vanished as if a shade had been drawn. Stirling, with every sense alert, guessed the reason for the darkness. The revolutionists in the engine room had brought aft a number of sheets of boiler plate, and these they had erected about the tail shaft where it entered the engine room.

A grim smile creased Stirling's lips as he waited. The way now was barred by three-eighth-inch iron; he was a prisoner in the pit.