When the official conference was all but over and the three Russians
were about to take their departure, Yanovisk asked to see Captain
Cooper’s papers, thereby disproving Skinner’s prophecies that no one
would so much as glance at them. For once the old captain had surely
misjudged the high-born Muscovites. Going into the captain’s quarters,
they not only looked at the permits and charters, but read all the fine
print on the backs of the sheets and otherwise examined them with minute
care. Yet their interest in the documents was no great triumph for Jeff.
In the first place, reading them did not cause the governor to dismiss
the guard. In the second, the incident itself was not without certain
disquieting aspects.
As Yanovisk bent over the papers Staritsa spoke swiftly in Russian, a
remark of course unintelligible to Captain Skinner and to Jeff, Yanovisk
glanced toward Spaskii, saw him nod, and continued his reading with
every sign of added interest. Yet it did not seem to Jeff that he was
looking up some doubtful point. His absorption in the papers looked now
like pretense, and fully on guard, he waited for enlightenment. It was
not long in coming.
“They seem quite correct, your Excellency, yet I would like to suggest
further scrutiny,” Yanovisk began. “Mr. Sharp says himself that he does
not personally know Captain Cooper, and it is our custom under such
circumstances to make most complete investigations.” He turned to Jeff.
“You will not mind if I take these papers to my quarters where it is to
examine them at my leisure, yes?”
Jeff got up and with dignity took the documents from the Russian’s
hands. “I would prefer to keep them on the ship,” he said.
“Yes—we won’t,” was Captain Skinner’s comment.
Staritsa moved into the center of the group; and there was nothing about
him to suggest the gallant, courtly nobleman of an hour before. “Your
Excellency, I believe you have the authority to seize those papers, if
the American does not yield them freely.”
Jeff’s answer was to slip a band about the documents and put them in his
pocket.
“You’ve got no more right to seize them than my crew has to seize
you—and heave you head over heels over the railing,” Captain Skinner
observed pleasantly. “And just about as much chance.”
All three Russians eyed Skinner intently and undoubtedly they received
impressions not altogether favorable. He did not appear to realize that
he came of an inferior nation; and indeed, he might create some little
disturbance before submitting to their own noble wills. They observed
that his face was lighted with a cheery smile—indeed, a smile of
encouragement—but somehow they were disinclined to take advantage of
it. Jeff, who should know better, seemed likewise unimpressed by their
several highnesses, and his black eyes looked squarely into their own,
instead of being humbly averted as was proper. There was also a look
about his lips that boded no good. Perhaps it might be well to postpone
the interview until a more likely time.
The commissioner bowed, stood up, and speaking a Russian farewell, led
the way out of the cabin. A moment later the trio strode down the gang
and disappeared. The four soldiers took their posts on the deck.
Jeff and Skinner, left once more to their own devices, eyed each other
in silence. The latter’s grim and deadly smile slowly changed to a grin
of real amusement; and presently he cackled, a strange sound in this
cabin hushed and breathless in the aftermath of the crisis just passed.
“It’s not very funny, I should say,” Jeff remarked gravely. “We’re
virtually prisoners on your own ship.”
“Sure. They weren’t going to take any chance on us getting away sometime
in the night with them otter skins. I was laughing at the mess we’ve let
ourselves in for. My boy, we’ll be lucky to get out of here with our own
skins.”
“Of course, if we had let him have the documents we would have never
seen them again.”
“Sure not. The next thing, they’d confiscate the fur and maybe the ship,
and when you registered a kick through Uncle Sam, they’d say there never
was no papers. They’d make out they caught you trading with the
natives.”
“This is all Baron Karl’s work. I think Maksoutof is pretty much all
right. Now what’s going to happen, Captain Skinner?”
“You know as well as I do; but we’re not licked yet. Who knows, maybe an
American gunboat will come into the harbor. Lord, how I’d love to see
one.”
On serious reflection, Jeff decided that he’d rather like to see one
himself.
“What comes next?” This was the question that was frequently on Jeff’s
lips in the next few days. These days were entirely calm, the business
of the town moved quietly ahead, and except for the presence and
periodical change of the guard, there was nothing to remind him of the
delicate situation brought about by the acquisition of the otter fur.
But official Alaska had not forgotten him. Skinner never guessed that it
had.
On the afternoon of the fourth day Jeff was called to a conference at
the Executive Mansion; but although he was on guard, Jeff could not
detect a single suspicious circumstance in connection with the meeting.
The furs were not even mentioned, but only some matters dealing with
America which Maksoutof and himself had discussed before. Staritsa came
in about five, and seeing that the two Muscovites wished to confer, Jeff
immediately left. As he walked down the hill he met Baron Karl and
Templeton, the Englishman, on the way up.
Except when a deep bias blinded him, Jeff was ordinarily not slow in
perceiving ulterior motives; but now it actually did not occur to him
that there might be collusion behind this meeting. It seemed the most
natural thing in the world. Ingenuousness is a Southern trait; almost an
innocence, a faith in the right dealing of others. He assumed that these
men were also on their way to confer with the government head. Perhaps
because Maksoutof had quieted his fears, perhaps because he still had
utmost faith in Templeton, he willingly paused to exchange a few words
with the two men; and he was not particularly on guard.
“Here is the new fur lord, I understand,” Templeton remarked pleasantly.
“You Americans certainly trust each other—to hand about among
yourselves a million rubles in otters.”
Karl’s remark seemed a natural development of his friend’s idea.
“Americans are a trusting race, is it not?” He smiled pleasantly.
“Innocent, honest backwoodsmen trusting everybody—and not forgetting to
expect every one to trust them in return, yes? And then when we trust
them—well, you know what happens.” He made a suggestive motion with his
strong, deft hand.
Jeff had been twitted before about Yankee shrewdness—a trait which he,
a Southerner, indignantly disclaimed—but he hardly thought that this
was playing the game. If this were a joke, it was a poor one. “Your
relations with Americans have not been happy,” he suggested.
“Americans are overly—what you say—appreciative, of the trust that
monarchs and governors give to special correspondents and so on,” Karl
went on. “By arranging with their fellows, they can manage to turn the
freedom allowed them into a handsome profit. Naturally, as you suggest,
Templeton, good business demands that they keep trust with each other
during these operations. What is the saying about honor among—how does
it proceed?”
This was so bald, the insult so perfectly apparent, that Jeff actually
wondered whether he had heard right. In any case, it seemed impossible
to ignore the remark. “The expression is—‘honor among thieves,’” Jeff
replied quietly. He was only slightly pale, and with his cane he
accurately struck off the top of an outlaw weed. “Do you mean to tell me
that you and your friends do not retain even this?”
Jeff had right to feel proud. This was thrust and parry with a
vengeance. Suitable rejoinders suggest themselves readily a few minutes
after an encounter; but are not always easy to think of on the spot.
Templeton’s smile showed plainly that this thrust was not lost on him. A
bold, resolute, none-too-scrupulous man, this Englishman was not without
a sporting sense that he never quite left behind him, a trait of all his
breed. He liked fast and clever work, and even such deadly games as this
had their entertainment for him.
Karl’s eyes flashed; and his manner showed that Jeff’s prompt reply had
taken him somewhat by surprise. He turned to his friend.
“Templeton, was that remark merely an instance of a rail-splitter’s
usual clumsiness at social conversation, or was it some sort of a veiled
implication?” he asked. “I wish to be sure of my ground before I go
ahead.”
“You are perfectly free to go ahead,” Jeff told him casually, “any way
you like.”
“Good. I haven’t seen you in such an agreeable mood since the night we
met—in the Governor’s gardens. By the way, Sharp, I have never heard
from you in regard to the subject that came up that night.”
“No. You have been reticent about it yourself.”
“I take it, then, you merely wished to postpone the matter until such
time as you could give it your attention? You are still, I trust, in the
same mind?”
Jeff’s hands shook, but by putting them behind him, he hid them from the
sight of his foes. He was ashamed of their slight tremor, and this was a
thing that would have brought tears to Molly’s eyes, had she been there
to see. It was so fine, so proud, so foolish with that dear, sad folly
of youth that it would have gone straight to the heart of one who was
wise with the eternal wisdom of Eve. “I am at your disposal any time you
wish,” he said.
A look of triumph overspread Karl’s face. “Good. I shall enjoy meeting
you. Shall it be to-morrow, just after sunrise?”
“That will be entirely to my satisfaction.”
“Up Kolosh Ryeka trail, beyond the Governor’s walk?”
“Yes. That seems a favorite place for your operations, Baron Karl.”
“Indeed? I shall ask Mr. Templeton to be my second, and any further
negotiations may be carried on between him and the person you choose to
represent you. Perhaps it might be well now, however, considering the
shortness of time, to appoint a master of ceremonies. Perhaps you, Mr.
Templeton, could suggest a friend of both myself and Mr. Sharp, yes?”
“I would suggest our mutual friend, Staritsa,” Mr. Templeton replied.
“He is widely known as a sportsman.”
“He is satisfactory to me,” Jeff told him.
“And to me,” Karl agreed. His face was startlingly pale except for the
red wound. “Perhaps you will find out also, Templeton, whether Mr. Sharp
prefers sabers or pistols. I believe it is his right to choose.”
“Pistols,” Jeff told them. “Considering that I never crossed sabers with
a man, pistols would seem to furnish the more interesting encounter.”
“I would think so,” Templeton answered with evident sincerity. “It
should be a very pleasant adventure for every one concerned.”