Another ship climbed up over the rim of the world. Smoke showed in a long slaty line, and soon was revealed the fine sheer and trim rig of a revenue cutter. Stirling lowered his glasses with a dry smile, and stared toward the whaler's poop. Marr stood there with feet braced and a telescope clapped to his eye.
The little skipper muttered vehemently as he wheeled swiftly and strode to the rail. "What ship's that?" he called up to Stirling.
"The United States revenue cutter Bear, Mr. Marr!"
The captain frowned, turned, and looked over the ice-dotted waters. "Which way is she heading now?" he asked.
"Same course. She's sizing us up. Likely she'll skirt the pack, back and forth, until she finds a lane to the east. She always does."
"How many cutters come North?"
"Usually three——the Bear and the Wolverene and the Northern Star."
Stirling's voice contained a shaded warning, as he leaned over the edge of the crow's-nest and watched Marr intently. The little captain was plainly disturbed. He coiled and uncoiled his well-manicured fingers, stroked his smooth chin, then went aft with a quick stride and disappeared through the cabin companion.
Cushner climbed up the fore shrouds and dropped alongside Stirling. Pinching the Ice Pilot's arm, he chuckled as he twirled the knob of the glasses and extended his arm outward.
"She's th' Bear, all right," he said after a careful glance. "She's giving us a good lookin' over. We're new to her. I reckon th' whaleboats will satisfy her. There's nothin' to excite suspicion."