The two seamen stood between the cabin door and the rail of the ship, and whispered each to the other, but Stirling could not catch their words. He stood erect, turned slowly, and reached under the mattress as Marr gripped Whitehouse by the arm and pointed toward the horizon.
Stirling’s hands came away with the little revolver which the girl had passed in to him. This he thrust down between his collar and neck, and its chill sent a remembered thrill through his body.
Whitehouse stuck his head within the doorway. "Be deuced quick habout hit!" he snarled. "Get your traps and come along. There’s a smudge o’ smoke to windward."
"Glad of that!" said Stirling, stooping on one knee and reaching for his dunnage bag. "I hope it’s the _Bear_ or the _Corwin_ or the cutter we saw going for the Arctic. She’s about due back."
"Bally fine chance!" Whitehouse snickered. "More likely she’s a blubber hunter tryin’ out. It’s more than likely."
Stirling knew better than this. No ships in the Bering whaled for oil; that pursuit was confined to Southern seas.
Marr was plainly nervous as he led Stirling toward the after part of the _Pole Star_, and kept glancing to the south and west. He halted on the poop steps and stared downward.
Whitehouse followed Stirling. The mate had motioned the crew to one side, and they had gathered in the waist, jeering as the trio passed them. They, too, were nervous. The smudge of smoke had widened to a splotch which streaked the horizon; a ship of some kind was dashing parallel to the course taken by the _Pole Star_.
Stirling hitched his dunnage bag under his left arm and turned as he reached the quarter-deck. His eyes were the best upon the whaler, and he knew every ship that came into Bering Sea. He threw all his power into determining the nature of the fast-flying stranger, then he smiled slowly. She was the _Bear_. A vague sense of the position of the masts and the rake of the funnel told him that the redoubtable revenue cutter had received Eagan’s message from St. Paul Island. She was coming with the speed of the wind, and was not more than seven knots astern.
Marr realized that Stirling had detected the name of the pursuer, and his face clouded. He shouted an order to the wheelsman, then sprang to the speaking tube which led down to the engine room. A volcano of smoke belched from the _Pole Star’s_ funnel. She swerved like a skater on ice, and the deck planks vibrated and trembled. A bellow of rage and defiance came from the crew at the change of course; they lined the rail and stared over the sparkling sea, shaking their grimy fists and calling down anathemas.