“Do you mean to say that the only way of hunting sea-otters is to go thirty miles from land, in a gale, with a chance of finding an almost invisible reef of rocks and landing on it, or of being blown out to sea if you don’t happen to hit it?”
“That’s just about it,” replied Serge, “though some are shot in the surf, and some are caught by surrounds in the open water, where they are driven by a whole fleet of bidarkies until they are out of breath; for an otter is obliged to come up every now and then to breathe, like a seal.”
“And what does it all amount to, anyway? I mean, what are the pelts worth?”
“I have known of a single skin bringing as high as eight hundred dollars,” was the answer.
“Phe-w-w!” whistled Phil. “No wonder they are hunted. Did you say there were any left?”
“Not many. They used to be found along the entire American coast as far south as California, and on the northeast coast of Asia as well; but now, as I said, they are only to be found in the wilder parts of Alaska.”
“Traders who make that their sole business, and engage the hunters by the year, paying them fifty, sixty, and even as high as one hundred dollars a skin.”
“Oh, to Russia and China mostly, where they are used to trim military uniforms and mandarin robes.”
“Well,” said Phil, who had been intensely interested in all this, “I don’t know of anything I’d rather get a shot at, and if I only had a rifle I’d try for one, though I suppose I’d have to have a bid――what do you call it?――too.”
“A bidarkie,” laughed Serge. “No, not necessarily; sea-otters are often shot in the surf from the beach, and then the hunter waits until the waves bring the body ashore.”
While the lads talked of sea-otters, their companion, who had cleaned up the dishes by the simple process of sweeping the remains of their meal into the fire, had been deliberately shaving bits of tobacco from a plug that had fortunately escaped a wetting, and filling his beloved pipe. This he had lighted with a live coal deftly picked up in his callous fingers, and he now sat, surrounded by a halo of fragrant smoke, blinking in the firelight, a picture of placid content. Seizing the opportunity of a pause in the conversation he broke in with:
“Sea-otters allers reminds me of old Kite Roberson who once said, consarning ’em, ‘Jal’――he allers called me ‘Jal,’ short for Jalap, ye understand――”