"She ain't my boat," said Petellin. "You'd ought to have got here a few days sooner."
"My God! I'm sorry we waited at the Pass," said Emerson. "The weather couldn't have been any worse that first day than it was when we came across."
Detecting in this remark a criticism of his caution, Big George turned about and faced the speaker; but as he met Emerson's eye he checked the explosion, and, seizing his cap, bolted out into the cold to walk off his mad rage.
"When is the boat due at Uyak?" Emerson asked.
"'Most any time inside of a week."
"How far is that from here?"
"It ain't so far—only about fifty miles." Then, catching the light that flamed into the miner's eyes, Petellin hastened to observe: "But you can't get there. It's across the Straits—Shelikof Straits."
"What of that! We can hire a sail-boat, and—"
"I ain't got any sail-boat. I lost my sloop last year hunting sea-otter."
"We can hire a small boat of some sort, can't we, and get the natives to put us across? There must be plenty of boats here."