“Fishing for what?” called out Phil, as he hurried after his companion.
“Salmon!” shouted back the mate. “They’re running in the strait.”
Now Phil had seen salmon-fishing in Canada, where after hours of wading and patient labor an occasional fish had been lured with a fly, and finally hooked. Then, after a protracted struggle, in which the angler had displayed infinite skill and patience, the fish had either escaped or been brought within reach of a gaff. With this as his sole experience in salmon-fishing, he could not help thinking that Jalap Coombs must be crazy to fancy that without rod, line, reel, fly, or hook he was going to capture one of the wariest and gamest of fish with a gaff.
Nevertheless, that is just what our young hunter did see done. He also saw another sight that filled him with wonder. It was a stream of fresh-water flowing into Krenitzin Strait, and filled from bank to bank with salmon, thousands and tens of thousands of them leaping, crowding each other almost to suffocation, and eagerly working their way up against the swift current to their spawning-beds some miles inland. In these beds they had been born, and to them they returned as surely as came the seasons themselves. It is so with every Alaskan river and stream, from the mighty Yukon southward. Every summer sees them swarm with uncounted myriads of this noble fish. Millions are caught for canneries and salteries, whence they are shipped to all parts of the world, and by the natives, who thus obtain their chief food supply for the ensuing year, while millions more are never even seen by man.
Phil had known of canned salmon, but had an idea that they came only from the Columbia River. He had never imagined that in far-away Alaska these splendid fish outnumbered those of the mighty Oregon stream a thousand to one. And he had just now been wondering if Jalap Coombs could catch one with a gaff! Had even laughed at the idea! Now he smiled as he reflected on his own previous ignorance concerning salmon and their ways. Why, he could catch them with his hands if he cared to go into the water; while to hook out any required number with a gaff was as simple as catching oysters with a rake.
Within three minutes the mate had secured two fine fish, weighing between ten and twenty pounds each. Then he and Phil went a short distance down the beach, and inside of fifteen minutes more had captured half a dozen great paper-shelled crabs, each as large as a soup-plate. Phil also filled his pockets with mussels, and laden with this abundant supply of food they again turned their steps towards the barrabkie.
As they approached it they were overjoyed to see a thin column of smoke rising above its low walls.
“Hurrah!” shouted Phil. “Serge has got a fire sure enough. But what a horrible, vile, dreadful smell! What can it be? Phew!”
“Smells like burning feathers,” said Jalap Coombs. “Wonder who’s fainted?”
Filled with curiosity, they hurried forward, and as they entered the barrabkie they beheld Serge on his knees before a large flat stone in one corner. He was bending over it, and blowing with furious energy at a little bunch of something, from which a dense cloud of smoke and the most nauseous fumes were issuing.