“How many ye got yourself?” queried the mate.
“I got eight, and Oro he got seven,” was the reply.
“Ye done well! Mighty well! Them’s the figgers we ’lowed ye was making by counting your shots, and as we didn’t want to make ye feel bad at fust start-off, we only brung in six of ourn. We’re going to fetch along the rest to-morrow, though, so look out for yourselves.”
So Ike Croly was “high line” for that day, and during the rest of the evening he showed both by looks and conversation how proud he was of the honor, and that he considered himself to be a very fine fellow indeed.
As for Phil, he was not only humiliated by his defeat, but heart-sore over his quarrel with Serge. How bitterly he repented of his hasty words! and how gladly would he recall them even now if only his wretched pride would permit! But it would not, and so at the supper-table he sat moody and silent, while the others eagerly discussed the events of the day.
“I tell ye,” cried Jalap Coombs, moved to do a little boasting for his side as an offset to that of Croly and Dunn, “that young feller”—here he nodded in Phil’s direction—“has made the best fust day’s record of any green hand at the business I ever run across.”
“I might think so too,” growled Captain Duff, “if it hadn’t been for his big talk about how he could shoot at the start-off. As it is, I must say I am disappointed in the result.”
“And I tell ye,” continued Jalap Coombs, without paying the slightest heed to this interruption, “he made as pretty a wing shot to-day as ever I see. A clean kill at more’n two hundred yards, nigher two hundred and fifty, with the seal on end, jumping like all possessed, and tearing along like a blue streak. A man might live to be a thousand, like old Jerusalem—Methusalem, I mean—and never see a neater shot in all that time. Why, I couldn’t have done better myself.”
As it was a notorious fact that while Jalap Coombs was a capital judge of shooting, he was also one of the very worst shots in the world, this last sally raised such a laugh at his expense that even moody Phil was unable to resist a faint smile. It was quickly over-clouded, however, as his thoughts reverted to Serge, and he was glad when, the meal being finished, he was at liberty to go on deck.
Here a busy scene was being enacted, which was at the same time so new and strange to Phil that he could not but regard it with interest. By the light of the setting sun the last three seals shot that day were being stripped of the precious skins for the sake of which they had been compelled to yield their lives. The three most expert seal-skinners of the crew, one of whom was Serge Belcofsky, were engaged in a match race at this business. Phil, who, having had some experience in skinning deer and other game, could appreciate the difficulties of the task, watched with amazement the ease and rapidity with which his friend worked.