"Whitehouse."
Stirling made a mental note for future guidance. "Now, Eagan," he continued, "you had better loosen the cuffs and leave me an automatic revolver. I hear the screw slowing. We're right off the rookery. Listen. That's the surf on the beach."
"Worse than that," said the government agent. "There's also the sound of seals barking. Hear them? I wouldn't wonder if they sense what is coming."
The seaman reached downward in the half-light and inserted a key in the handcuff lock. Stirling guided him with cool fingers, and soon the cuffs fitted loosely.
"Now the gun," said Stirling.
Eagan glided to the porthole, glanced shrewdly out, then returned to Stirling's side. "Take mine," the deputy said. "I won't need it. Hide it under your mattress."
The icy coolness in the man's tones steeled Stirling. He lay back as Eagan went across the cabin, opened the door, and stepped swiftly out upon the deck. A lock clicked.
An impending silence lay over the Pole Star. The shuffling of men on deck, the creak of blocks, the straining of falls, told of boats being lowered. Voices were muffled as a light anchor was dropped at the end of a whale line, serving to swing the ship and hold it toward the shelving shore.
Stirling caught the deep roar of the bachelor seals. In fancy he saw the boats glide across the water and grate upon the beach. He saw, in fancy again, the raised capstan bars and the shattered skulls of the prey.
A boat ground against the ship's side, a block creaked, a laugh rang and was stilled. Then footfalls sounded, and the porthole was darkened.