When Raynor opened his eyes again he found himself lying on a bunk
in a small cabin. Across the single port-hole which lighted it was a
red calico curtain. Rough beams crossed the ceiling, from which
swung a ship’s lantern, unlighted, of course, at that time of day.
He was on board a ship and a ship that was under way, for he could
feel the rise and heave of her hull as she took the seas. With keen
curiosity, he sat up. The furniture enumerated was all that he could
see in the cabin. There was not even a strip of carpet on the floor,
which was of well scrubbed planking.
He looked out of the port. All about him were tumbling green waves
through which the schooner,--for he had long since guessed he was on
board the craft that rescued him,--was driving smartly. He felt
slightly dizzy and sat down on the bunk for an instant before he
rose to open the door and find his rescuers and thank them. When he
did so he experienced a shock.
The door was locked!
The briefest of investigations proved that it was locked from the
outside, showing that he had been deliberately shut in, though for
what purpose he could not imagine. He knocked impatiently at the
door, hoping to attract the attention of somebody who could explain
the mystery but nobody came. Raynor sat down on the bunk, again
listening for any sign of movement without.
But none came for a long time. There was a great trampling to and
fro of feet on deck and the timbers of the schooner complained as
though she was being forced through the water, but this, and the
constant rush of water along her sides, were the only sounds.
“Bother it all,” muttered Raynor, “this is a fine way to treat a
rescued castaway. Anyone would think I was a prisoner.”
But at last there sounded steps outside and the rattling of a key in
the lock and the door was flung open. The yellow-bearded man stood
in the doorway, almost filling its frame with his huge bulk. He
looked down at Raynor with a rather amused smile.
“I suppose you have been thinking that we don’t treat our guests
very well on the _Polly Ann_?” he said in a deep, gruff voice.
“Well, I don’t see why I was locked in,” rejoined Raynor in a rather
aggrieved tone.
“Maybe it didn’t occur to you that we might have private matters on
board that we don’t want strangers peering into,” was the calm
reply. “You know you were not invited on board.”
Raynor felt a sudden twinge of remorse. After all, he owed his life
to this man. He began to thank him but the other silenced him with
the wave of a hand.
“That was nothing. Anyhow, I got a fine bear pelt out of it. One of
the finest I ever saw. But to get down to business. Have you any
idea where you are?”
“On board the schooner _Polly Ann_,” rejoined Raynor, with an oddly
uncomfortable feeling.
“True enough, but do you know anything about her?”
Raynor shook his head.
“Well, she’s Terror Carson’s craft. I’m Terror Carson. If you’d ever
been in the northern seas, where we are bound, you’d have heard of
me.”
The man uttered his sinister name with some pride. He squared his
huge shoulders and stroked his glowing beard with evident
satisfaction. Raynor felt his heart sink. There was something wrong
about this schooner and this man.
“You are going north trading?” he asked, intending to demand being
put aboard the first steamer or other vessel bound for the states
that they encountered.
Terror Carson burst into a mighty laugh that seemed to shake the
cabin timbers.
“Yes, we’re going trading. Trading in our own line,” he said, and
then he beckoned to Raynor to come out into the main cabin from
which six smaller ones, similar to the one the young engineer had
occupied, opened.
“See those?” he asked, and pointed to three bright brass cannons
that were ranged at the stern inside closed ports. “We use those in
our trading. You see we are what the courts of law and the
international boundary authorities call: ‘seal poachers.’”
“Seal poachers!” Raynor shrank back. He had heard of these wild,
lawless men of the north who defied the international boundary rules
and even war-ships sent to enforce them. Not a few of them, as he
knew, had been captured after hard chases and sentenced to long
terms of imprisonment. He could hardly bring himself to speak his
next words.
“But of course you will put me on board the first vessel we sight,”
he said, “you see, Captain Carson, I----”
“Oh, no, we can’t lose you now,” chuckled the yellow-bearded man,
“you know too much. We need an assistant cook and I think you are
just the man for the job.”
“Do you mean to say that, against my will, and against the law----”
began Raynor, but Terror Carson checked him.
“You forget we know no law,” he said.
“Well, then, against my will you mean to enroll me as one of this
lawless crew.”
“That’s about the idea,” drawled Carson amiably.
“But if we are caught by some British cruiser, I shall be imprisoned
as one of you!” burst out Raynor frantically.
“That’s something you will have to take your chances of. You
shouldn’t have fallen overboard from the _Cambodian_ and then this
wouldn’t have happened. You see I know some of your story and have
guessed the rest.
“While you were asleep I took the liberty of reading your papers.
Here they are,” and with all the grace in the world, Terror Carson
handed the bewildered young engineer a package and a wallet which
had been abstracted from his inner pocket.
“Now we will go on deck,” said Terror Carson, “and I’ll show you the
scene of your future labors. You will berth and have your meals in
the cabin and not with the men.”
Raynor felt grateful for this at least, for he judged the crew of a
craft like the _Polly Ann_ could be little better than a lot of
desperadoes. But he was not prepared for the array of villainous,
hard-bitten countenances he saw when they reached the deck. The
schooner was under full sail and racing northward like a swift sea
bird.
Except for the man at the helm, and a short, stocky man who was
standing by him and gazing up at the rigging, the men were all
lounging about, some squatting under the weather bulwarks. The
short, stocky man proved to be the mate, Mr. Wiggins, a real
“down-east bucko,” Terror Carson described him as being. The midship
decks were piled with lashed down dories and from the stern davits
hung a smart whale boat.
Aft of the foremast was a squat, white house with an iron pipe
projecting from it. Terror Carson led the way there with Raynor at
his heels. The men’s eyes followed them, some with scowls and some
with curiosity.
From the door of the galley, or ship’s kitchen, for that is what the
white structure was, there issued a cloud of steam as they
approached. Suddenly, in the midst of the volume of vapor, there
appeared the round, good-natured, freckled face of a lad of about
Raynor’s own age. His head, of bright red hair, was uncovered, and
he wore a very dirty apron about his waist.
“Noddy Nipper,” said Terror Carson, nodding toward Raynor, “here’s
our assistant cook. Make him work, and if there’s any nonsense
report him to me. That’s all.”
With an upward look at the sails, he turned on the heel of his big
sea-boots and strode off aft, leaving the half-stupefied Raynor
staring at the red-headed youth.