Nearly two hundred and fifty miles north from Oonimak lie the Pribyloffs, towards the larger and more northerly of which, the island of St. Paul, the swift revenue cutter Phoca was speeding her way. That day of steaming over the restless waters of Bering Sea was one of unalloyed pleasure to both Phil and Serge. Their troubles were over; they were really bound for Sitka at last, and, en route, were going to stop at the wonderful seal islands, of which both had heard so much as to fill them with curiosity. Above all, they were making this delightful trip in company with congenial companions, some of whom were friends.

It was a real pleasure now to watch the seals, that began to appear when the cutter was fifty miles north of Oonimak, and which increased in numbers as the day wore on. They exhibited very little fear even of the steamer, but would gaze curiously at her until they deemed her too near for their own safety, when they would suddenly sink out of sight and dart away like a flash.

“I never tire of watching the dear things,” said May Matthews, as she and Phil stood together in the narrow space just in front of the pilot-house. “What with their quick movements and lovely great brown eyes, I think they are simply fascinating; don’t you?”

“Indeed I do,” answered her companion; “and though this is the first opportunity I have had for studying them from this point of view, I shall always think of them after this as the most graceful and interesting of marine animals.”

“Do you know,” continued the girl, “they seem to me so nearly human that I don’t see how any one can have the heart to kill them; do you?”

“No,” replied Phil, boldly, “I do not; as I see them now, I would almost as soon think of shooting my dear old Irish setter Tab.”

In making this reply the lad was but expressing the honest sentiments with which he now regarded the business that had once seemed to him so harmless. He was thankful to discover, as he thought he had from her conversation, that Miss May had no idea of what his position on board the Seamew had been, and determined that if he could prevent it she should never learn that he had been a seal-hunter. He was intensely chagrined, therefore, when, as he finished speaking, a voice from the pilot-house window directly above their heads said:

“Is not that rather a curious opinion for you to express, Mr. Ryder, seeing that you have so recently and successfully been engaged in that very business? For my own part, I can’t see any more harm in killing one of those seals than in killing a sheep; but then I’m very practical and haven’t a bit of sentiment.”

Looking quickly up and with crimsoned face, Phil recognized his first acquaintance of that morning; but before he could utter the retort that sprang to his lips, his companion said, quietly:

“Then I, for one, am sorry for you, Mr. Ramey; for it does not seem to me that people who are merely practical get the fullest enjoyment out of life.” Then, before the young lieutenant could make reply, she exclaimed: “Oh, there is a school of whales! Are you well acquainted with whales, Mr. Ryder? Let us go aft where we can see them better.”

When they were beyond ear-shot of the pilot-house the girl said: “I hope you won’t mind Mr. Ramey. He is horrid, anyway, and is always saying disagreeable things. He hates this ship and this station, and is awfully provoked because papa would not recommend him for a vacancy at San Francisco. I expect he bears you a grudge on account of the sea-otter skin, but you mustn’t care.”

“I only feel badly,” replied Phil, “to have you know that I was a seal-hunter. Now you will let me explain—won’t you?—that I only shipped on the Seamew because I’d lost all my money, and couldn’t think of any other way of getting to Sitka. I didn’t know until we were out at sea that I was to be a hunter. Even then I didn’t realize for some time what the business really meant. When I did, I refused to have anything more to do with it; and that is the reason we were left behind when you captured the schooner and took her to Sitka.”

“Yes, indeed. I know all about it,” replied Miss May, enthusiastically. “Serge has already told me how nobly you behaved when that horrid captain ordered you out to shoot the poor mother-seals. It was a perfectly splendid thing to do, and it was to show that I feel just as you do on the subject that I said what I did a few minutes ago.”

Phil’s face was again crimsoned, though this time the flush was not one of anger. It was very pleasant to be thus appreciated, but he was too honest a fellow to take all the credit to himself.

“Did he also tell you how finely he and Jalap Coombs backed me up on that occasion; and that if they hadn’t I should have been forced to give in at last?”

“No! Tell me,” exclaimed the girl, eagerly. “I love to hear of such things—I mean, of friends standing by each other through thick and thin, and being willing to undergo all sorts of suffering and hardship for the sake of what they believe to be right.”

So Phil told her of the stanch friends with whom he had been cast away on Oonimak, and they laughed together over “old Kite Roberson’s” wisdom until dinner-time. Then they separated, for Phil and Serge had accepted an invitation to dine with the officers in the wardroom.

To the great relief of the former, Mr. Ramey did not appear at this dinner, being compelled to remain on duty until some officer who had finished his meal would relieve him. The other hosts of the occasion formed just such a genial, jolly party of bright fellows as is to be met with in Yankee wardrooms all over the world, and the dinner proved a great success. Although our lads were slyly chaffed on all sides concerning their recent experiences, and the first-lieutenant’s account of how he had conducted them to the cabin as prisoners of war was received with shouts of laughter, the story of their adventures was listened to with closest attention, and both of them were complimented on their pluck in times of danger.

Early on the following morning the Phoca, steaming through the dense fog that nearly always envelops the Pribyloffs in summer-time, was suddenly surrounded by incredible numbers of screaming sea-fowl. Although the noise made by these was deafening, it was a welcome sound, for it was a certain sign of the vicinity of the island of St. George, whose precipitous cliffs are vast bird rookeries.

Two hours later the still, fog-laden air was pervaded by the far-reaching odor of the seal rookeries and killing-grounds of St. Paul. At the same time the dull roar of its restless seal millions filled miles of surrounding space, like that of a distant Niagara. The darting forms of fur-seals playing fearlessly about the ship were to be seen on all sides, while at safer distances bands of hair-seals and big sea-lions could easily be distinguished from their more graceful cousins. From fog-hidden Walrus Rock came the deep bass roaring of hundreds of the unwieldy long-tusked monsters from which that islet derives its name, though it is chiefly noted as being the site of one of the most famous bird rookeries in the world. Here, too, as had happened off the bluff coast of St. George a few hours before, sea-fowl swarmed about the ship with deafening cries, both in the water and in the air.

Feeling his way carefully with a lead, Captain Matthews, who had been here many times, took his ship around Reef Point and anchored her in three fathoms of water, well to windward of St. Paul, nearly a mile off shore, and so beyond the influence of its horrible odors.

“Now,” said he to Phil and Serge, after the vessel had been made snug, “I expect to remain here three days, unless driven from my anchorage by a sou’wester. During that time, while you would be heartily welcome on board ship, I should advise you to take up your quarters on shore, as there is so much for you to do and see that you would find it inconvenient to be constantly interrupted by coming off for your meals. The government and company people are always delighted to entertain visitors, and I will see that you have the proper introductions. Another bit of my advice is to put on your old Oonimak clothes, which will be in keeping with those universally worn on the island, and will prove more suitable to your explorations than anything else.”

The lads accepted both these pieces of advice, and, after bidding good-bye to the officers and to Miss May, who positively declined to visit people whose sole business was the killing of her dear seals, they set forth from the ship filled with eager anticipations of what they were to see.

“Remember,” called out Miss May from the deck, “that you are to be on board in time to start for Sitka.”

“Indeed we will!” answered both lads at once. “We won’t miss it this time even if we have to accept your father’s invitation to go in irons!” cried Phil. “Good-bye!”

Mr. Ramey, who had obtained permission to go ashore with his beloved camera, for which he hoped to find sunlight enough after a while, went in the boat with Captain Matthews and the lads.

As it approached the shore and the fog began to lift, both Phil and Serge uttered exclamations of amazement. To the left, as far as the eye could reach, literally covering the land, apparently ranged in platoons, companies, regiments, and armies, were the seals in countless myriads, an incredible mass of animal life. They were in ceaseless motion; and all, from old bulls to new-born pups, were roaring, barking, spitting, yelping, or plaintively calling, until the whole formed a mighty volume of sound that is never stilled, night or day, from the time the seals arrive in June until they depart in October.

From this scene, which they looked forward to visiting later, the lads turned their attention to the village of St. Paul, which occupied a rising ground on the right, directly above the beach. Here they were amazed to see a collection of nearly one hundred comfortable-looking frame-houses, a number of warehouses and other company buildings, a Greek church, a store, and a school-house, all painted white and neatly ranged along regularly laid-out, terraced streets. With its general air of prosperity, neatness, and comfort this sealing-station in far-away Bering Sea compared favorably with thousands of other American villages scattered over more favored portions of the country. There were no shade trees, to be sure, nor is there a tree of any kind on the island; but then none is needed, for the almost perpetual fog does away with the necessity. High above the village, from the top of a tall pole, floated an American flag. As Phil Ryder stepped ashore and looked up at this well-loved emblem of his country, he realized as never before what a vast and far-reaching empire it is, and his heart thrilled with pride at the thought that it was his country and that was his flag.