“Humph! ye’d better say at once that it’s because the victuals don’t suit ye. Never mind, though; we’ll try and have them fixed to your liking the next time.”
After breakfast, the mate, who had been up all night, and had brought the schooner safely through the Strait of Fuca into an open seaway, turned in for a long sleep, and Captain Duff took the deck.
Phil went forward for his talk with Serge, and learned, among other things, that the light-house tower of Cape Flattery, which was just fading from view, marked the most northerly light-station of the United States on the Pacific coast. When the young hunter wondered at this, and asked if there were no light-houses in Alaska, Serge replied that so far as he knew there was not one.
In this statement he was correct, for though many Alaska harbors and channels are well buoyed and marked by day beacons, yet on all of its thousands of miles of storm-beaten, fog-enshrouded coast not a light sends forth its cheery gleam, nor does a single fog-horn give warning of hidden dangers.
Phil was intensely interested in everything that Serge told him concerning seals, and now realized for the first time the importance of his position on board the Seamew, and the reason why his skill in shooting had been so highly regarded by Captain Duff.
“What pay does a seal-hunter generally receive?” he asked, after a short period of thinking.
“One dollar each for the first one hundred skins, two dollars for the first two hundred, and so on up to four dollars each for the first four hundred, I believe,” responded Serge.
“And how many does a good hunter usually secure? What is the average, I mean?”
“The best I have heard of in a three months’ cruise is four hundred and sixteen skins,” was the reply.
“Whew!” ejaculated Phil. “That would make his pay for three months’ work something over sixteen hundred dollars. If I could only make half of that sum, wouldn’t it be fine? How much do the green skins fetch?”