It was sundown and six bells upon the Pole Star, when the lock clicked, and Whitehouse entered.
"Well, old man," he said, boastfully, "we've turned the trick. Night's coming on and the Bear is 'ull down. This is a regular king's yacht—speed of the best, and seaworthy."
"It won't help you—in the end. How are you going to get out of the Bering?"
"I'll leave that to Captain Marr. I just dropped in to see if you 'ad been fed. I don't nurse any 'ard feelings. I forgive my enemies, I do."
In a way, Whitehouse spoke the truth. Stirling had always held a slight liking for the English mate, who was one of England's outcasts—one who had left his country for his country's good. He had the roving disposition of the British, forgave quickly, and hated only for a short period of time.
"You're about the best of the bunch," said Stirling, feeling his temple where the belaying pin had struck. "I hold being knocked out against you, but that is all. Why don't you play like a man, which you are, and prevail on Marr to abandon his useless expedition? The entire shipping world will be searching for him. You haven't as much chance of escaping as a thief in a crowded street."
"That's when the thief escapes," Whitehouse said.
"I'll take the regular galley mess of food," Stirling abruptly remarked.
The mate nodded. "All right," he said, backing to the door and standing in the alleyway. "All right, old man. No 'ard feelings?"
Stirling allowed the shadow of a smile to creep across his lips. He eyed the cockney with a calculating expression, thinking swiftly and to one point. "Where are we heading?" he asked.