Morning dawned at an Arctic hour, and the white light crept through the open porthole of Stirling's cabin. He rose and dressed, emerging to the deck with a wide yawn. The striking bell told him that he had not slept more than two hours.
A seaman brushed by him and hurried forward to where the natives were standing on the higher coign of vantage which marked the forepeak. All eyes were turned out over the swiftly running Strait, where a two-funnel light cruiser cutter plowed with a bone at her stem. She carried no flag, and the signals set to her bridge halyards were in an unknown code.
Whitehouse glided to Stirling's side. The mate was tensely agitated; he sputtered and stuttered. "Bly me," he said, "what's she doing 'ere?"
"Light cruiser," said Stirling, thoughtfully. "An American—or British. She's just this side the Diomedes. She did not see us."
Whitehouse twisted his loose lips into a purse, and stroked his long, red nose.
Stirling widened his eyes. A dark plume of smoke was all that remained to mark the ship. This plume stretched along the eastern horizon, then faded and paled in the sun's first rays.
Marr called from aft. Whitehouse turned with a guilty start, hurried along the weather side of the ship, and mounted to the poop.
He returned within a few minutes and touched Stirling on the arm. "Skipper wants to see you," he said. "It's blym important."
Stirling glanced about as he went aft. The ship lay deep within the shadow of the Point. Her deck forward was covered with natives and trade stuff. The crew had brought out all of their red underwear and slop-chest stuff in a search for bargains, and their voices were mingled with the clatter of native maids and hunters.
"What did you make of that cutter?" asked Marr as Stirling reached the poop.