As this boat was ready to leave directly after dinner, the lads bade each other good-bye, Phil promising to make his way to the village on foot early the following morning, so as to reach it in plenty of time to rejoin the Phoca.
After his friend’s departure he again visited the captive lions, and wondered, as he watched them, if they were the same as those he had read of on the so-called “seal rocks” of San Francisco. If his friend the inspector had been there, he would have told him they were not; that the seal-rock sea-lions were of a variety found only on the Californian coast, and that they do not attain more than half the size of their great Alaskan cousins.
When tired of this amusement Phil wandered to a point commanding a fine view of the great seal herds, and became so absorbed in watching them that the afternoon passed before he knew it, and he was surprised when the hunter who could speak English called him to an early supper. After it, Phil and this hunter went together to the beach, where, to the lad’s great disappointment, the latter said he feared there would be no sea-lion drive that night, as the wind showed signs of changing.
While they talked of this a boat appeared, coming from the direction of the village. One of its occupants, all of whom were natives, stepped ashore, and talked for a minute with the hunter.
“He says,” remarked the latter, turning to Phil, “that they are bound for Walrus Island after eggs, and that if you want to go they will take you. They will stay all night, but will start back for the village early in the morning.”
“That suits me!” exclaimed Phil; “so long as there isn’t to be any lion-hunt, a hunt for birds’ eggs in an Arctic rookery is the next best thing. Besides, if these fellows will carry me back to town in their boat, I shall be saved the long, lonely tramp, for which I didn’t care very much anyhow.”
With this Phil bade his hunter friend good-bye and stepped into the big boat, which was immediately shored off and headed for Walrus Islet, six miles away.
About an hour later the inmates of the hunting-camp were startled by the sudden appearance among them of Serge Belcofsky, hot and breathless, as though he had run all the way from the village.
“Where is my friend?” he shouted, darting searching glances about the dim interior.
“Gone to Morzovia for eggs,” replied the English-speaking hunter.