I retired precipitately to my stateroom, not wishing to hear more. By
this time I had seen enough to realize that the hard-drinking George
Chanler of the present was not the same man whom I had been friendly
with back East. That Chanler never would have endured the brutal sport
with Garvin and the negro. He would not have fallen under the spell of
a man like Brack; he would not have sent wireless messages to a girl
which would make an honest operator like Pierce wish he had never
learned his trade. I remembered the owner’s suite, unoccupied and
furnished for a woman’s comfort.
“Scientific ——!” Pierce had said.
But it was too late for me to consider quitting now. Captain Brack and
his taunting smile had attended to that. If I left now the contempt in
his eyes would be justified: I would be the weakling which his look
announced me to be. He would smile that smile as I went over the side;
would continue to smile it whenever my name was mentioned.
I was disgusted with Chanler. But in my heart I was afraid of Brack,
and, paradoxically, for this reason I was afraid to quit.
“Scientific ——!” What did Pierce mean? Whatever it was I judged it to
concern only Chanler, therefore it did not greatly concern me. But
Brack—so greatly did his smile distress me that I actually looked
forward to meeting him again with something akin to relish.
That evening, near the end of the dinner, Dr. Olson happened to speak
of the totem gods of the Northern Pacific tribes.
“Yes,” said Brack, “they whittle their gods out of wood with knives;
white men use their minds to whittle theirs. Men are greater than
gods. What would gods amount to if they didn’t have men to worship
them? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Can you imagine anything more
impotent than an unworshiped god? Man creates gods; not gods man. Men
are absolutely indispensable to gods; but men can do very well without
gods if it pleases them to do so.”
“Has it pleased you to do so, Captain Brack?” I asked.
“Decidedly so. I sail light. Men make a slavery of this job of
existence because they encumber themselves with laws, gods, and so on.
I decided long ago not to be a slave to gods or anything.” He turned
upon me with his devilish smile. “Now, Mr. Pitt, it is easy to see, is
a slave to his gods.”
“Which gods, for instance.”
He burst into ready laughter, as if I had fallen into a trap he had
laid for me.
“The petty, insignificant gods of civilized conduct!”
“Hear, hear!” interjected Chanler, lazily blowing away the smoke.
“What you two doing: making religious speeches? ‘God,’ you said. Stow
that. There’s no room for gods of any kind on board this boat.”
“Except the gods of science,” laughed Brack.
“Ha! Science! That’s good, awf’ly good, cappy. You don’t know how good
that is. I’ll stand for science, cappy, but not religion. Religion
sort of suggests conscience, and conscience—m’boy, I cut the chap dead
days ago and refuse to be re-introduced. One bottle to science, men,
and then it’ll be time to kiss our native land good-by. Pitt, if
you’ve a tender woman’s heart pining for you some place, better go
send her your farewell message, ’cause cappy and I are going to make a
wet evening of it until we sail in the interests of science!
Glor-ee-ous, glorious science! Hah!”
I accepted his suggestion eagerly as a means to escape from the cabin.
There was no woman pining for me; there was no woman in my life. I had
no farewell message to send to any one. While Chanler, Brack and the
doctor made merry over their bottle I sought the solitude of the upper
deck.
* * * * *
It was a dark night, and a rising wind was blowing in from the sea.
Along the water-front lights twinkled and gleamed, mere red-hot dots
in the all-encompassing darkness.
At a dock near by the outline of a long steamer showed beneath the
flare of a myriad gasoline torches, and across the water there came
from her decks the clang of hammers and the hollow rumble of trucks
pouring freight into her hold.
“The _City of Nome_, sir,” said a voice behind me, and turning I
beheld the sturdy figure of Mr. Wilson, the second officer. “They’re
rushing the job of preparing her for her first trip of the season. She
follows the _Wanderer_ up. She’ll be about forty-eight hours behind
us.”
“Will she overtake us?”
“Hardly, sir. We’re as fast as she is, if not faster. No, we’ll show
her the way into Bering Sea if nothing happens to check our speed.”
A sudden gust of wind shook us and a splattering of great rain-drops
struck the deck. The mate turned toward the sea and sniffed the air.
“Hello!” he exclaimed, as if the wind had told him something. “I hope
you’re a good sailor, Mr. Pitt; it may be a little rough outside
tomorrow and for a couple of days to come.”