THE SEALERS' RECKONING
The wind fell light next morning, and the haze closed in, but it became evident there were reefs not far away when the Champlain fell in with a herd of holluschackie. The men were in an unpleasant temper, and worked in eager haste when Jordan bade them get the boats over, for to have gone back and swept every seal off the island would have been a relief to them then. Jordan, however, seldom let his feelings overcome his prudence, and he smiled dryly as he watched the men.
"I don't quite know where the beach is, but there are the seals," he said. "If we run the flag up you'll pull back just as quick as you can."
The boats had started in another minute, and with rifles flashing every now and then they swung over the long swell, until the men's arms and backs were aching.
Darkness was creeping in when they came back one by one, and then by the flicker of blinking lanterns the work went on. The deck grew foul with grease and blood, the knives slipped in the tired hands that held them, and the lads would stop gasping a moment or two each time a stripped carcase went over the side, and wonder whether anything would ever free them from the horrible smell. At last it was over, and while the Champlain crept on her way again they sat greasy and slimy in the hold. They were very tired, but there was content in the sealers' bronzed faces, save for that of Montreal, who sat gloomily silent away from the rest.
"You've not been talking much to-day. Feeling sick?" said somebody.
Montreal's brown fingers slowly clenched themselves. "Not in the way you mean. You know what I came up here for, boys, and I've had 'bout enough of this," he said. "How'm I going to find out anything when Jordan yanks me out of every boat that goes ashore?"
Donegal, whose forehead was wrapped in a crusted bandage, shook his head.
"And Ned Jordan knows as well. Can ye not be trusting him?" he said.
Montreal appeared to find some difficulty in checking a groan. "I've waited a long while, boys, and I'm kind of tired," he said.