"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 p.o.o.p 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 pa.s.sed 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_.

The chase was on.

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.

"Come on," cried Whitehouse into Stirling's ear. "Get down to your cabin. It'll be a blym long time before that revenue ship gets in range of us. I think we are the faster."

Stirling followed the mate through the cabin companion and down to an alleyway. At the starboard end of this Whitehouse inserted a key in a lock and slid open a door, motioning inside with a jerk of his thumb.

The Ice Pilot found himself in a small stateroom which was trimmed with maple and white tiling. He dropped his dunnage bag as the mate closed the door and turned the bolt, and his eyes roamed about the cabin.

The single porthole, set deep in the double skin of the ship, was bra.s.s-rimmed and no larger than a small dinner plate. It could be opened by turning two bronze wing screws, and the view through it was upon a patch of water, with swift-flowing ice darting by.

"Prison or palace?" he said as he turned and studied the cabin, swaying with the motion of the ship. The list was slightly to port. Some sail had been spread to catch a light breeze which had sprung up with the sun. The deck overhead resounded with gliding steps; Marr and the mate were doing everything possible to hold their speed.

The cabin's furnishings were yachtlike and serviceable. The bunk was covered with a hair mattress and an eiderdown counterpane. Over it were two bra.s.s racks for luggage and dunnage, and on the opposite wall a washbowl and towel rack could be folded into a seat. Pictures were strewed about, which were all marines painted by a decorator of merit.

Stirling glanced from one to the other. Tropic scenes brought to mind the incongruity of their lat.i.tude-the _Pole Star_ was hustling from the equator as fast as steam could drive her. Her last course was toward the barren land of Siberia and the upper headland of the Gulf of Anadir. It was terra incognita to most seamen and all save a few whale-ships or traders.

Stirling examined the lock of his door. It was far stronger than the one in the galley cabin, and had been set within the wood and mortised so that only a small, flat keyhole showed.

He bent his head and listened. A step had glided along the alleyway. It was repeated in shuffling motion, going from starboard to port and back again across the ship. Whitehouse had left a seaman on guard.

Stirling stood erect and squared his shoulders, towering almost to the dunnage-racks over the white bunk. His eyes hardened as he glanced from the green-filled porthole to the door and back. The cabin was a secure prison, as Marr had said. It would require considerable ingenuity to escape from it. The sentry on guard was sure to be armed with one of the sealing rifles; he would be changed each watch.

The ship hurtled onward toward the Siberian coast. The screw thrashed astern, bit deeply into the waves, and thrashed again-each time the foam boiled astern the ship trembled and racked.

Bells clanged; shouts sounded; running feet were overhead; blocks creaked; the wind freshened and called for more canvas. The menace astern crept up to a four-mile range. A gun boomed across the wild waste of Northern waters. A shot fell to windward; another followed. Then, and slowly, the grip of the pursuer was shaken off. Superspeed, a fair wind, and a straining stokehold crew, made the slight difference.

Stirling frowned as he sensed that the _Bear_ was being distanced. He opened the porthole gla.s.s and pressed his face to the aperture. He could see little save following seas and ice floes. The revenue cutter was somewhere astern. Her guns were silent; this meant that the range had increased to useless distance.

CHAPTER XIX-A TOAST FROM MARR

It was sundown and six bells upon the _Pole Star_, when the lock clicked, and Whitehouse entered.

"Well, old man," he said, boastfully, "we've turned the trick. Night's coming on and the _Bear_ is 'ull down. This is a regular king's yacht-speed of the best, and seaworthy."

"It won't help you-in the end. How are you going to get out of the Bering?"

"I'll leave that to Captain Marr. I just dropped in to see if you 'ad been fed. I don't nurse any 'ard feelings. I forgive my enemies, I do."

In a way, Whitehouse spoke the truth. Stirling had always held a slight liking for the English mate, who was one of England's outcasts-one who had left his country for his country's good. He had the roving disposition of the British, forgave quickly, and hated only for a short period of time.

"You're about the best of the bunch," said Stirling, feeling his temple where the belaying pin had struck. "I hold being knocked out against you, but that is all. Why don't you play like a man, which you are, and prevail on Marr to abandon his useless expedition? The entire shipping world will be searching for him. You haven't as much chance of escaping as a thief in a crowded street."

"That's when the thief escapes," Whitehouse said.

"I'll take the regular galley mess of food," Stirling abruptly remarked.

The mate nodded. "All right," he said, backing to the door and standing in the alleyway. "All right, old man. No 'ard feelings?"

Stirling allowed the shadow of a smile to creep across his lips. He eyed the c.o.c.kney with a calculating expression, thinking swiftly and to one point. "Where are we heading?" he asked.

"Siberia. We 'ave a nice little cove picked out."

"In the Gulf of Anadir?"

"There or thereabouts."

"Marr don't know that coast."

"The second engineer does. 'E was with the De Long expedition. Says it's a bloomin' fine sh.o.r.e all the woiy to the mouth of the Lena."

"Fine is right!" said Stirling with a smile, sitting down on his bunk and crossing his legs. "It's barren and death-haunted. One thing--"

Whitehouse paused with the key in his hand.

"There are revolutionists at that point," said Stirling. "Marr should be careful where he puts in."

"They won't bother us."

"I'm not so sure. They would cheat a cheater any time."

Whitehouse flushed. "A cheater?"

"That's what you and Marr are! Cheaters! You raided the rookeries. Your judge will be the retribution which governs all wrongdoing. Your own heart and soul rebel against what you have done."

Whitehouse disappeared from the opening, and Stirling could hear him giving instructions to the sentry. Footfalls sounded going up the companion and along the quarter-deck, and then the mate came back to the door and leaned against the chamfer. He rubbed his long red nose with a reflective finger.

"I'm in hit too bloomin' far to get out now, Stirling. I'll do my best by you. Do you want to get away at the mouth of the Anadir? I can fix that."

Stirling made a slow calculation on his fingers. He glanced upward toward the deck and furrowed his brows. "The Gulf," he said, dropping his glance and staring at Whitehouse, "is about three thousand miles from any sort of civilization. I think I'll stay on board-a prisoner."

The mate nodded good-naturedly and turned toward a Kanaka, who brought a tray upon which were two tins of stew and a steaming pot of coffee.

Stirling took these and set them at the end of the bunk. Whitehouse shrugged his shoulders, examined the lock with a smirk, and closed the door. The bolt clicked.