His distress was so real that, while not wholly understanding its cause, the good-natured Aleut took pity on him and said: “My bidarkie is here. It has two holes. If you like, we will go to Morzovia. You may then fetch your friend back. I will come in the bidarrah.”
Anything was better than a whole night of inaction. It was possible that the cutter would wait for them, and they might yet get back to the village in time. Thus thinking, Serge eagerly accepted this generous offer, and a few minutes later the light bidarkie was skimming the darkening waters of the open sea in the direction of Walrus Islet.
To understand the existing condition of affairs we must have been at the village about the time Phil and Serge were eating dinner with the sea-lion hunters. A newly-arrived steamer had just dropped anchor near the _Phoca_, and her master, a stoutly-built German named Kuhn, was on his way to visit and report to Captain Matthews. His ship was the _Norsk_, a tramp steamer from San Francisco, bound for the mouth of the great Yukon River, with men and supplies for a new Alaskan fur-trading company. He had touched at St. Paul for information and, if possible, to obtain a pilot.
More important than all the rest of his news, in Captain Matthews’ estimation, was that of a certain mysterious schooner which the master of the _Norsk_ had seen in Oonalaska harbor. He could learn nothing definite as to her movements, but it was commonly reported that she had been chartered at a big price to go into Bering Sea after seal-skins.
“Confound these poachers!” exclaimed Captain Matthews. “I no sooner get rid of one than another appears. Mr. Ramey, you will please go ashore with the gig, intercept Mr. Ryder and Mr. Belcofsky the moment they return from Northeast Point, and bring them back with you. Tell them we shall leave for the southward the moment they get on board, and that at any rate we must be out of here before sunset.”
As the third lieutenant was rowed towards the village his mind was filled with unpleasant reflections. Those chaps were to come on board again, after all, and through them he would be made a butt of ridicule for the wardroom mess. It was tough luck, and he wished they were in Halifax, or some other distant port, at that moment, instead of on the seal island of St. Paul.