A jubilant voice rolled throughout the sheltered ship. It came from Whitehouse, who had danced upon the quarter-deck planks in his glee. "All 'ands aft to spice the main brace!"
Stirling understood this last order. The crew, the engine-room force, the stokehold gang, and the steerage crowd were invited to empty a case of whisky.
Marr's toast to his fellow conspirators was given with a bold attempt to hold their confidence. "Drink hearty, mates!" he exclaimed. "Drink to the eternal confusion of the revenue cutters!"
Stirling hardly smiled, but scraped his pockets and found some few crumbs of tobacco. These he pressed into his pipe and lighted with a sulphur match. "I'll smoke to that promise," he said, simply. "A bear never lets go when its grip fastens."
[CHAPTER XX—THE MOVING SHADOWS]
Landlocked and secure, the crew of the Pole Star worked out the day by odd jobs about the deck. Stirling heard them swabbing down, and caught the cockney accent of the mate raised in cheerful encouragement as the skipper sent forward more grog.
The long Arctic day died slowly out over the waters of the Bering and the Gulf of Anadir. The waves which beat upon the rocky headlands, buttressing the tiny harbour, curled inward and ran with seething foam up a shelving beach.
Marr had made one trip to the outer sea. He returned and called Whitehouse to the poop. Their voices were raised incautiously, and Stirling heard the Bear mentioned. The boastful laugh which followed showed that the revenue cutter had gone by without being aware of the harbour's entrance. The view from the sea was one of solid rock and towering headland.
It was at five bells that Stirling heard steps within the alleyway. The sentry had been sleeping on duty, and he woke as Marr's voice broke the stillness of the ship. The lock of his door clicked, and Stirling switched on his electric light and waited, his breast exposed, showing the hairy massiveness of his shoulders and the supple muscles beneath.
Marr came in with cautious eyes, glanced about the cabin, stared at the porthole thoughtfully, then lifted his chin to Stirling. "How are things with you?" Marr asked. "Getting along all right?"