OVERBOARD IN THE NORTH PACIFIC
As the mate’s boat approached the _Seamew_ at the conclusion of that
first day’s hunt, its occupants saw that the other two boats were
already alongside, and that their cargoes were being transferred to the
schooner’s deck.
“They’ve beaten us,” said Phil, despondently, as he noted the number of
skins being handed up over the side. “I declare luck seems to be dead
set against me!”
“If you only hadn’t lost the tooth,” murmured Serge.
“I’m glad I have,” replied the other, sharply, as he caught these
words. “I’m glad I haven’t got it now, too, because there is no such
thing as luck, and I’ll prove it to you yet by getting more seals than
both those fellows put together, even without any wretched tooth to
help me.”
“I’m sorry, then, that I ever gave it to you,” retorted Serge, angrily.
“So am I; and after this I hope you will keep your witch charms to
yourself.”
“Hello, for’ard there!” cried Jalap Coombs, whose quick ear detected
the angry tones, though he could not distinguish the words of their
conversation. “What’s to pay? You two aren’t quarrelling, be ye? I hope
not, for, as old Kite Roberson uster say, ‘Any man as will quarrel with
a friend don’t desarve to have no friend.’ So kiss and make up, same
as the little lambs does. I tell ye, lads,” he added, earnestly, “in
this ’ere onsartin v’y’ge of life the wise sailor-man takes advantage
of the fair breezes and smooth waters of friendship, while the swabs is
forever bucking agin the cross-seas and head-winds of strife.”
Although both lads heard these words and appreciated their good sense,
their anger still so rankled that they could not bring themselves to
act upon the mate’s advice. So as their boat ranged alongside the
schooner they sat in a moody silence, and it rested with Jalap Coombs
to reply to the questioning hails regarding the success of their first
day’s hunt.
“How many ye got?” shouted Ike Croly, from the deck.
“How many ye got yourself?” queried the mate.
“I got eight, and Oro he got seven,” was the reply.
“Ye done well! Mighty well! Them’s the figgers we ’lowed ye was making
by counting your shots, and as we didn’t want to make ye feel bad at
fust start-off, we only brung in six of ourn. We’re going to fetch
along the rest to-morrow, though, so look out for yourselves.”
So Ike Croly was “high line” for that day, and during the rest of the
evening he showed both by looks and conversation how proud he was of
the honor, and that he considered himself to be a very fine fellow
indeed.
As for Phil, he was not only humiliated by his defeat, but heart-sore
over his quarrel with Serge. How bitterly he repented of his
hasty words! and how gladly would he recall them even now if only
his wretched pride would permit! But it would not, and so at the
supper-table he sat moody and silent, while the others eagerly
discussed the events of the day.
“I tell ye,” cried Jalap Coombs, moved to do a little boasting for his
side as an offset to that of Croly and Dunn, “that young feller”――here
he nodded in Phil’s direction――“has made the best fust day’s record of
any green hand at the business I ever run across.”
“I might think so too,” growled Captain Duff, “if it hadn’t been for
his big talk about how he could shoot at the start-off. As it is, I
must say I am disappointed in the result.”
“And I tell ye,” continued Jalap Coombs, without paying the slightest
heed to this interruption, “he made as pretty a wing shot to-day as
ever I see. A clean kill at more’n two hundred yards, nigher two
hundred and fifty, with the seal on end, jumping like all possessed,
and tearing along like a blue streak. A man might live to be a
thousand, like old Jerusalem――Methusalem, I _mean_――and never see a
neater shot in all that time. Why, I couldn’t have done better myself.”
As it was a notorious fact that while Jalap Coombs was a capital judge
of shooting, he was also one of the very worst shots in the world, this
last sally raised such a laugh at his expense that even moody Phil was
unable to resist a faint smile. It was quickly over-clouded, however,
as his thoughts reverted to Serge, and he was glad when, the meal being
finished, he was at liberty to go on deck.
Here a busy scene was being enacted, which was at the same time
so new and strange to Phil that he could not but regard it with
interest. By the light of the setting sun the last three seals shot
that day were being stripped of the precious skins for the sake of
which they had been compelled to yield their lives. The three most
expert seal-skinners of the crew, one of whom was Serge Belcofsky,
were engaged in a match race at this business. Phil, who, having had
some experience in skinning deer and other game, could appreciate the
difficulties of the task, watched with amazement the ease and rapidity
with which his friend worked.
Serge had placed the body of his seal squarely on its back, and with a
knife sharpened to the keenness of a razor he made a single straight
cut through the skin from the lower jaw along the neck, chest, and
abdomen to the root of the tail. Next came four swift circular cuts,
one around the base of each fore flipper, one around the extremity of
the body at the tail, and another around the head just back of the jaws.
The skin being now ready for removal, Serge grasped an edge of it, and
with his keen blade rapidly “flensed” it or cut it free from the body,
which he rolled over as the operation proceeded, until he literally
rolled the seal out of its skin. After this, one of the crew carried
the skin below, and laid it, hair side down, in a “kench,” or bin
constructed for the purpose. Here the fleshy sides of the skins are
covered thickly with salt, and they are left in that condition until
the end of the voyage. They are thus thoroughly pickled, and will keep
in this state for an indefinite length of time.
As Serge finished his task nearly half a minute ahead of his most
expert rival in this peculiar business, the spectators greeted him
with shouts of applause and a vigorous hand-clapping. The young
Alaskan acknowledged this with a smile and a bow, but at the same time
glanced inquiringly to where Phil stood, to see if he were joining in
these tokens of appreciation. But the young seal-hunter was not given
to outward demonstrations of his feelings, and though his heart was
peculiarly warmed towards Serge at this moment, and he longed for a
reconciliation, he could not bring himself to let this feeling manifest
itself before others. So he stood motionless and silent.
Serge, too, was longing for a renewal of friendship with the one of
all his companions whom he most admired and loved, and was bitterly
disappointed that Phil should give no sign of a similar desire. More
to hide the expression of this feeling than anything else he picked up
the body of the seal which he had just finished, and bore it to the
rail with the intention of throwing it overboard. The deck was slippery
with blood and blubber oil, and Serge was not just then in a mood to
exercise caution. He was thinking of Phil instead of what he was doing.
As a consequence, when he lifted the seal above his head and leaned far
over the rail to fling it from him, his feet slipped, and in an instant
he had plunged headforemost into the cold waters.
Phil uttered a cry of horror as his friend thus disappeared from view,
for it instantly flashed into his mind that, like most natives of
Alaska, where the water is too cold to tempt them to linger in its icy
embrace, Serge did not know how to swim. The young hunter was so prompt
to act that even as he cried aloud in his distress he was casting aside
his coat and kicking off his heavy boots. Then, darting aft, he sprang
on the rail, and with the same motion flung himself into the sea. As
he came to the surface he caught sight of Serge struggling to keep his
head above water but a few feet from him, and a couple of strokes took
him to the side of the drowning lad.
“Rest your hands on my shoulders, old man,” he shouted, “and I can
support you. Don’t grab me, or you will drown us both.”
Half choked, blinded, and breathless as he was, Serge heard,
understood, and obeyed.
By treading water, and at the same time paddling with his hands as
a dog uses his fore-paws in swimming, Phil managed to keep both his
own head and that of his helpless comrade above water. It required a
tremendous effort, however, and he realized that some unnatural weight
was gradually dragging them down.
“Kick off your boots, Serge!” he cried.
“I can’t,” gasped the latter.
“You must! Unless you do I can’t hold out a minute longer.”
Somehow or other Serge managed to obey and get rid of his heavy
water-filled sea-boots, though how he did it he never could tell.
Fortunately they were several sizes too large for him, a fact over
which he had previously lamented.
The relief from their weight was instant, and Phil felt that he was now
good for several minutes longer.
“Can you see the schooner?” he asked.
“No,” answered Serge, who was looking in the wrong direction.
“Look again, and look all around.”
“Yes, yes!” screamed the other. “Here she is, right on top of us! Look
out! or we shall be run down.”