“Rutland, Vermont, where I was educated,” replied the teacher, simply.
“You don’t say so!” cried Phil; “why, I am from New England myself. New London, Connecticut, is my home, and that is where I met Serge, too.”
“Then I am doubly glad to make your acquaintance,” said the teacher, “for I love New England almost as much as I do this island. The people there were very kind to me. But here is the drive.”
A thousand seals, all young males, were being slowly driven by half a dozen shouting Aleuts up from a beach, or “hauling-ground” as it is called, two miles away. They were strung out in a long panting line, for a seal finds it extremely difficult to drag himself along on dry land, and must be allowed to rest every few minutes. To Phil’s surprise they were as docile as sheep, and much more easy to drive, because they could not run.
They had nearly reached the killing-ground when our lads met them, and there they were allowed to rest for an hour, in order that they might cool off. If this were not done, and if they were killed when overheated, the hair and fur would drop out from the skin almost as soon as the latter was removed, rendering it worthless.
While the seals were thus cooling, the killing-gang of about twenty stalwart young natives, all armed with six-foot clubs and with keen-edged knives, arrived upon the scene.
“Where do they get those tremendous base-ball bats?” inquired Phil. “Do they come from the mainland?”
“Yes,” laughed the guide, “and from the other side of it, too. They are killing-clubs, and are made on purpose for this work in your own town.”
“Not New London, Connecticut!”
“That’s the very place.”