The Stormy Petrel remained an entire day in port. Blackie spent his time listening to reports from the various fishing grounds. The shores of Bristol Bay are hundreds of miles long. Next time he went out he wanted to go to the right spot, if there were such a spot.
Johnny made the acquaintance of Kopkino, the Eskimo. From him he learned much about salmon, Orientals and the shores of Bristol Bay. And then, just at midnight, he passed the sturdy little man standing beside a dark pathway. There were three little men with him and they were all talking. They were not Eskimos. He was sure of that. But they were Orientals. He had heard enough of the languages to know.
At once his mind was filled with questions. Was Kopkino betraying his employer for Oriental gold, or was he acting as a spy for his big white brother? Who could say?
“He’s an Oriental,” Johnny told himself. “All Eskimos are. But after all—” He came to no conclusion.
Just before dawn the Stormy Petrel crept out into the fog. She was bound for an unannounced destination.
“Action,” Johnny said to Lawrence. “This time we are to have action. I feel it in my bones.”
One thing puzzled Johnny not a little. They were provisioned as if for a long trip, two weeks or more.
Several hours later the Stormy Petrel was once again circling about in the fog.
“Seems like it’ll never end, this fog,” MacGregor said to Johnny. They were on deck working out their watch. “Looks as if nature was on the side of those Orientals.
“Orientals,” he continued musingly, “I don’t suppose they’re much different from the rest of us, only just some of them.”