Archie and Billy came upon a family of four, lying at some distance from their blow-hole—two grown harps, a "jar," which is a one year old seal, and a ranger, which is three years old and spotted like a leopard. Billy attacked the ranger without hesitation. Archie raised his gaff above the fluffy little jar, which was fanning itself with its flipper, and whining.
"I can't do it!" he exclaimed, lowering his club, and turning away, faint at heart; then "Look, Billy!" he cried, in half amused wonderment.
The old seals had wriggled off to the blow-hole, moving upon their flippers, in short jumps, as fast as a man could walk. Apparently they had reached the hole at the same instant, which was not wide enough to admit them both. Neither would give way to the other. They were stuck fast, their heads below, their fat bodies above.
Their selfish haste was their undoing. Billy was not loath to take advantage of their predicament.
Thus, everywhere, the men were at work. There was no friction with the crew of the Lucky Star; the whole party worked amicably, and almost side by side. When they had dispersed the pack, the "sculping" knives were drawn, and the labour of skinning was vigorously prosecuted. The skins, with the blubber adhering, were piled in heaps of six or more, according to the strength of the men who were to "tow" them to the edge of the field, where the ship was to return in the evening; and every "tow" was marked with an Armstrong and Son flag.
The Lucky Star's recall gun surprised the men before the work was finished. They looked up to find that the dusk was upon them, and that the snow was falling—falling ever more thickly, and drifting with the wind. The men of the Lucky Star stopped work, hurriedly saw to it that their heaps of pelt were all marked, and started on a run for the ship; for, on the ice fields, the command of the recall gun is never disregarded.
"There goes the Dictator's gun," shouted one of the men.
A second boom added force to the warning. The captain was evidently anxious to have his men safe out of the storm; the "fat" could be taken aboard in the morning. So Bill o' Burnt Bay, who was in tacit command of the party, called his men about him, and led the return. It was a mile over the ice to the Dictator, which lay waiting, with the second and third parties aboard. He was in haste; moreover, he had Sir Archibald Armstrong's son in his care: perhaps, that is why he did not stop to count the Dictator's heaps of pelt before he started.
"Come, now, Tuttle, don't lag!" he shouted, ambitious to have his party return with no delay.
But Tuttle still lagged—or, rather, ran from heap to heap of pelt, as though to make sure that each was marked. He busied himself, indeed, until the party was well in advance—until, as he thought, there was no eye to see what he did under cover of the driving snow. Then he quickly snatched Lucky Star flags from half a dozen heaps of "fat," cast them away, and planted Dictator flags in their stead—a dishonourable duty which the house-flag of Armstrong & Son had never before been made to do.