“Oh!” groaned Serge. “How could he do such a thing? Now we shall be too late, and the cutter will go without us.”
His distress was so real that, while not wholly understanding its cause, the good-natured Aleut took pity on him and said: “My bidarkie is here. It has two holes. If you like, we will go to Morzovia. You may then fetch your friend back. I will come in the bidarrah.”
Anything was better than a whole night of inaction. It was possible that the cutter would wait for them, and they might yet get back to the village in time. Thus thinking, Serge eagerly accepted this generous offer, and a few minutes later the light bidarkie was skimming the darkening waters of the open sea in the direction of Walrus Islet.
To understand the existing condition of affairs we must have been at the village about the time Phil and Serge were eating dinner with the sea-lion hunters. A newly-arrived steamer had just dropped anchor near the Phoca, and her master, a stoutly-built German named Kuhn, was on his way to visit and report to Captain Matthews. His ship was the Norsk, a tramp steamer from San Francisco, bound for the mouth of the great Yukon River, with men and supplies for a new Alaskan fur-trading company. He had touched at St. Paul for information and, if possible, to obtain a pilot.
More important than all the rest of his news, in Captain Matthews’ estimation, was that of a certain mysterious schooner which the master of the Norsk had seen in Oonalaska harbor. He could learn nothing definite as to her movements, but it was commonly reported that she had been chartered at a big price to go into Bering Sea after seal-skins.
“Confound these poachers!” exclaimed Captain Matthews. “I no sooner get rid of one than another appears. Mr. Ramey, you will please go ashore with the gig, intercept Mr. Ryder and Mr. Belcofsky the moment they return from Northeast Point, and bring them back with you. Tell them we shall leave for the southward the moment they get on board, and that at any rate we must be out of here before sunset.”
As the third lieutenant was rowed towards the village his mind was filled with unpleasant reflections. Those chaps were to come on board again, after all, and through them he would be made a butt of ridicule for the wardroom mess. It was tough luck, and he wished they were in Halifax, or some other distant port, at that moment, instead of on the seal island of St. Paul.
When he reached the landing he found that they had not returned. He also found the egg-bidarrah just about to start for an all-night’s trip to Walrus Islet. Now Mr. Ramey had picked up a fair knowledge of the Aleut language, armed with which, and a silver dollar, he approached the native skipper of the egg-boat. “The young white gentlemen,” he said, “wish very much to visit Morzovia. They are now coming in a bidarrah from Northeast Point. Here is a dollar, which is yours if you will kindly stop when you meet that bidarrah and invite them to go with you.”
The native willingly agreed to do this, and a moment later he had the satisfaction of seeing the egg-boat shove off. “The scheme may work, or it may not,” he said to himself. “At any rate, it is worth trying. It gives me one more chance, and it won’t hurt those young beggars to wait here a week or so longer, until some other ship comes along to take them off.”
Half-way up the coast the egg-boat met the other bidarrah, and Serge received an invitation to go to Walrus Islet, which he declined. When he reached the village he found Mr. Ramey patiently waiting.