Eagan moved from Stirling's cabin to the forecastle and back again. He had secured a pair of rusty handcuffs with which he made great show of securing the Ice Pilot, where he lay on his back. Now and then one of the galley crowd peered in through the open porthole and reported to the sailors on deck.
A double lookout was maintained from forepeak and quarter-deck, and the horizon was closely scanned by Marr and Whitehouse. The rookeries lay close to the south and west and the ship had been driven toward the northeast point of St. Paul's Island.
Stirling sensed his position by the slowing of the screw and the direction of the slight wind and he reviewed the entire series of events since coming aboard the ship. His head had now cleared, and the slight swelling at the temple was going down under Eagan's skillful treatment.
The situation was desperate enough. Marr had taken the long chance and reached the waters about the rookeries. But two armed ships were known to be in the Bering Sea or the Arctic. One was the revenue cutter Bear; the other, the unknown cruiser which had driven through Bering Strait.
Stirling's anger boiled and simmered as he lay in a handcuffed position and waited for reports from Eagan, who had to be careful. There was scant chance of their ever capturing the ship. Two against forty offered little hope to dwell upon; another method than violence would have to be found.
Eagan came in at one bell before midnight, closed the door, pocketed the keys, then moved over to the porthole and glanced keenly out.
"How're we heading?" whispered Stirling.
"Southwest."
"Dead on St. Paul?"
"She's just been raised from aft. Marr and Whitehouse sent the word forward. The whole tribe of Kanakas, Gay Islanders, dock rats, and cinder-muckers—to say nothing of the two first-class engineers, who ought to know better—are itching to get at the seals. It will be as much as our lives are worth to interfere. Marr has them all worked up."