"This cabin won't 'old 'im," the mate declared, fumbling with the lock. "E's too blym near the crew and the steerage. The starboard room aft the cross alleyway is the place for our friend here."
"It's too darned good!" exclaimed Marr. "Stand up, Stirling. We'll lead you to your new home."
Stirling was of two minds. There was scant chance for resistance as he twisted and untwisted the handcuff chain. He glanced about the cabin. The objects of personal value most certainly would be stolen by the crew or the galley crowd, and he prized a few of these beyond price.
"I want my things," he said in cool resignation. "Let me bundle up a few geegaws and I'll come along. It'll take me five minutes."
Marr tapped his side pocket suggestively. "Go ahead," he said, backing from the cabin and glancing meaningly toward Whitehouse. "Five minutes, you get. No more! Take off his cuffs."
The two seamen stood between the cabin door and the rail of the ship, and whispered each to the other, but Stirling could not catch their words. He stood erect, turned slowly, and reached under the mattress as Marr gripped Whitehouse by the arm and pointed toward the horizon.
Stirling's hands came away with the little revolver which the girl had passed in to him. This he thrust down between his collar and neck, and its chill sent a remembered thrill through his body.
Whitehouse stuck his head within the doorway. "Be deuced quick habout hit!" he snarled. "Get your traps and come along. There's a smudge o' smoke to windward."
"Glad of that!" said Stirling, stooping on one knee and reaching for his dunnage bag. "I hope it's the Bear or the Corwin or the cutter we saw going for the Arctic. She's about due back."
"Bally fine chance!" Whitehouse snickered. "More likely she's a blubber hunter tryin' out. It's more than likely."