The Ice Pilot turned to Cushner, pressing the bowl of his pipe with his broad thumb. "We're making good time," he said, thoughtfully. "Five days of this and we'll sight our Aleutian landfall. I guess we'd better not worry about the cubby-hole aft and the woman. I never could understand them, anyhow."
Cushner laughed and clapped Stirling on the back. He withdrew a foot or more, spread his legs wide, and surveyed Stirling with mingled pride and calculation.
Cushner squinted as he drawled: "You're all right, old man! You ain't no clothing-store dummy or one of them smart ducks with spar-deck shoes and a gold lanyard to your watch chain; but you'll pass where they won't. You're a man—every inch of you! I've heard thar ain't no better, when it comes to ice work."
Stirling was silent. He dragged on his pipe.
"A woman's man," continued Cushner, "ain't for these seas or the seas we're agoing to. And by saying that I don't mean no disrespect for the skipper. I was with him coming round the Horn. A fighter, he is, and all that—but there's a polish to him I don't like. It ain't natural. He's like a polite boarding-house runner. Them's the sharks to look out for. They know more than we do!"
"We'll keep our jaw tackle chockablock!" said Stirling, tapping his pipe against the rail and cramming it into his side pocket. "We'll sail ship and tend to our duties. I'll get the crow's-nest up in the morning. You'll find me ready for anything—short of breaking the law of the three nations. I'll put the Pole Star where the old man says, but I won't raid no rookeries with him. I won't do that!"
The positive set to Stirling's jaw was a relief to Cushner. He nodded. "Me, too," he said, moving aft. "I'm willin' to whale or trade or go to the Pole with you in charge of th' ship."
Stirling went to his cabin, latched the sliding door which led to the starboard waist, and undressed slowly. He sank into a profound sleep, broken once by a dream of Frisco and the Coast of Barbary.
He awoke as the little marine clock above the bunk was striking seven bells, reached to a shelf and drew toward him a compass set in a leather binding. It was part of his possessions brought out in the dunnage bag from Antone's cigar store.
Steadying his compass by a crack at the head of the bunk, he made a shrewd calculation as to the direction the Pole Star was heading.