“Don’t ye be too sure of that!” shouted Ike Croly, whose boat had pushed off. “I’ve already laid out to spend that money myself.”
“Oh, you have, have you?” muttered Phil, with all the old pride in his reputation as a crack shot fully aroused. “Perhaps you’d better not spend it until you get it, though.”
“Come back to the schooner with each dozen that ye get, and we’ll take care of ’em here,” was Captain Duff’s parting instruction as the boats put off.
Never had Phil imagined that so many seals existed as he saw that day, nor did it seem possible that these could be the same shy creatures he had encountered in the North Pacific. In the excitement of making a score he forgot all that he had said about seal-killing being butchery, and fired at every mark with the reckless ardor of an enthusiastic sportsman.
Five times during that day of slaughter did the mate’s boat return to the schooner, and each time she bore a dozen seals. On the last return trip she was laden to the gunwales with a dozen and two more.
“Never in all my experience did I see sich a day’s haul of seals!” exclaimed Jalap Coombs. “And I only wish my friend, old Kite Roberson, war here to see what a Yankee boy kin do with a pop-gun.”
“I’m glad he isn’t,” replied Phil, who, weary and aching all over, was beginning to feel ashamed of and disgusted with his day of killing.
As he clambered up over the schooner’s side he caught sight of something that caused him to start back as though he had been struck. On the deck, mingled with blood and blubber, was a white fluid that ran to the scuppers and trickled from them in streams.
“What is it?” demanded Phil, hoarsely, of one of the crew, who was busily skinning a seal. As he asked the question he pointed a trembling finger to a pool of the white fluid.