“That’s just about it,” replied Serge, “though some are shot in the surf, and some are caught by surrounds in the open water, where they are driven by a whole fleet of bidarkies until they are out of breath; for an otter is obliged to come up every now and then to breathe, like a seal.”
“And what does it all amount to, anyway? I mean, what are the pelts worth?”
“I have known of a single skin bringing as high as eight hundred dollars,” was the answer.
“Phe-w-w!” whistled Phil. “No wonder they are hunted. Did you say there were any left?”
“Not many. They used to be found along the entire American coast as far south as California, and on the northeast coast of Asia as well; but now, as I said, they are only to be found in the wilder parts of Alaska.”
“Who buys the skins?”
“Traders who make that their sole business, and engage the hunters by the year, paying them fifty, sixty, and even as high as one hundred dollars a skin.”
“I mean, where do they go finally?”
“Oh, to Russia and China mostly, where they are used to trim military uniforms and mandarin robes.”
“Well,” said Phil, who had been intensely interested in all this, “I don’t know of anything I’d rather get a shot at, and if I only had a rifle I’d try for one, though I suppose I’d have to have a bid—what do you call it?—too.”