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.”