Stirling searched the faces for the sailor whom he had seen in the Frisco room, but he was not in evidence. That sailor had impressed Stirling as far out of the ordinary. It was not only the polished fingernails and the resolute set to the jaw, but also the certain air which the seaman had carried that led to the deduction that he had at one time commanded other men.
Cushner mopped his face with the back of his sleeve and worked aft to the break of the poop on the starboard side where he glanced up at Stirling.
"Hello, old man!" he said, out of hearing of the busy crew. "What do you think of the Pole Star by now?"
"Good ship. Some crew, though."
The second mate mopped his brow for a second time, then squinted at a gang working down the deck with squeegees. "Eighteen hands before the mast," he said. "That ain't much for six boats. We'll need them all if we lower for bowheads."
"Where's the sailor who came out with me?"
"He's below!" This was said expressively, with a heavy wink. "I think he'll stay below for a watch or two. Somebody—maybe it was Marr—bounced a belaying pin over his figurehead. It'll heal in time."
"What did you make of the sailor?"
"Maybe a spy. Maybe a good man gone wrong."
"He recognized Marr in the Blubber Room!"