“Oh, the captain let him off?”
Christianson shook his pale locks. “You do not know vhat dey are—dose whaling captains.”
“You don’t mean”—in his astonishment Cheviot addressed the dumb navigator again, as if given such a theme even he must at last find tongue—“you don’t mean you,” and then he halted, for there is something about the impact of the word “deserted” that men shy from, “you don’t mean you left the ship without leave?” Björk’s face never changed.
But not so Christianson’s. He regarded his acolyte with a somber enthusiasm. “It was yoost like Björk. Say noddind. Yoost follow de call. Dat’s Björk!”
“Pretty big risk, I should have thought.”
At which, somewhat to Cheviot’s surprise, Björk gave a sharp little nod and Christianson showed his long yellow teeth in a rather horrible smile.
Cheviot felt egged on to say, “Don’t they shoot deserters up here?”
“Yes!” said Björk, speaking for the first time.
“If dey find dem,” amended Christianson.