"Did she get them?" he asked.
"She certainly did! She also removed Captains Jones and Priestly from the Spouter and the brig Belvidere. Both captains were trading whisky for bone; there is a law up here that men should not do that!"
Again Stirling watched the effect of his words. Marr had many barrels of cheap trade whisky aboard the Pole Star, and already had sent some ashore.
"That will be all," said the skipper with a quick frown. "You are too confounded personal! Haven't I a right to ask you a few questions? Who's captain of this ship?"
"Captains are not immune from certain laws. One law applies to all men. You cannot trade rotten whisky with natives. You cannot rob them of their bone for a barrel of water and alcohol. You cannot raid rookeries and get away with it. That cruiser is the answer. You have escaped so far. You may not be so lucky next time."
Marr wheeled with a vicious oath. "Get forward!" he said. "Get where you belong. You ought to join some of these canting missionary schools. There's one or two I'd like to drop you at."
Stirling paused on the first poop step and closed his fists, but opened them again and went on down to the deck, moving slowly forward to where the crew and natives were trading. He singled out the Diomede Islander who had disposed of most of his sealskin boots.
"When do you go back?" he asked, guardedly.
The native tapped the rail with his pipe and filled its bowl with a pinch of cut plug. He then broke off a match from a block and scraped it carefully upon the deck, straightened, and drew in five deep breaths before the tobacco was consumed, and he answered.
"Pretty soon, now," he said, replacing the pipe in his deerskin coat, and glancing through puffed eyes at the sea in the direction of the Lesser Diomede. "Me take umiak and trade stuff and wife and little ones and me go."