Sure enough, after breakfast the anchor was let go with a rattle and roar and the Northerner came to a standstill. The whistle was blown in impatient short toots as a signal to the pilot to come off, if, as the captain was certain, they were really near the harbor mouth. Mr. Dacre was anxious to go ashore, as he had some friends living in the Alaskan town whom he had not seen for many years.
At last, out of the fog came the sound of oars, and then came a rough voice roaring out through a megaphone a message to the Northerner's company.
"Steamer, ahoy! Who are you?"
"Northerner, under charter, San Francisco to St. Michael," rejoined the captain succinctly. "Are you the pilot?"
"Aye! aye!" was bellowed back through the all-enveloping mist.
"Come aboard then, will you?" admonished the captain, and jerked the whistle cord sharply so as to give the pilot his bearings.
In a few minutes a big, capable-looking dory, manned by two Aleuts appeared alongside. In the stern sat a grizzled, red-faced man in oilskins. This was Bill Rainier, the pilot.
"How about taking her in, pilot?" demanded the captain anxiously.
The man grinned.