The more Mr. Ramey reflected upon his recent ridiculous adventure, the more determined he became to keep its history from reaching the ears of his shipmates on board the Phoca, if such a thing were possible. He knew that if it once got into the wardroom he would never hear the last of it, for nothing more pleases a wardroom mess than a good joke at the expense of one of its members. The story is told and retold with such humorous additions as may suggest themselves from time to time. It is treasured up to be related through coming years in many different wardrooms until, unless its victim is sensible and good-natured, it weighs upon him like a chronic nightmare, and causes him much unhappiness. Fortunately, most wardroom men have had both these qualities thoroughly rubbed into them by a four-years’ course of vigorous polishing at Annapolis, and so are in a condition to laugh as heartily over a good story at their own expense as at any other. Unfortunately, in the present case, Mr. Ramey was not an Annapolis man, and had not yet learned to take such things good-naturedly. Then, too, as he was very fond of jokes at the expense of others, he realized how bitter and nauseous the dose would be made for him. Therefore, he mentally vowed that, if he could compass it, neither Philip Ryder nor Serge Belcofsky should again set foot on the deck of the good ship Phoca. To this end he began to scheme, even while they were brushing the dirt of the rookery from his uniform, and from the very first fortune seemed to favor him.

“I wouldn’t mention this if I were you,” he said in a low tone to the lads, “until we are once more aboard ship and away from the island, because there is such a strong feeling here against any one who disturbs a rookery that it might get me into trouble. Of course it is too good a yarn to withhold from the wardroom, but it will be all the better for being kept a few days.”

“All right,” replied Phil, striving politely to smother his laughter; “we won’t speak of it on the island.” At the same time the lad smiled to think how he should enjoy telling it to Miss May, and how heartily that appreciative daughter of the sea would laugh over it.

Captain Matthews dined ashore with the company’s agent that day, while Mr. Ramey and our lads had accepted an invitation from the government inspector, under whose hospitable roof the latter were also to spend the night.

During the meal, at which, in honor of the guests, were served all the delicacies of the islands, Phil paid particular attention to a large omelette, a dish of which he was very fond. As he had seen no fowls about the village, he inquired of his host where he kept his hens.

“Oh, just around the corner!” laughed the inspector, “where we have a chicken ranch containing several millions of egg-laying fowls. By-the-way,” he continued, more soberly, “that is one of the sights of this region, and you ought certainly to visit it before leaving here. It—Walrus Island, I mean—supports the most accessible as well as one of the most populous and densely-packed bird rookeries in the world outside of the Antarctic Ocean. That is where we keep our million or so of hens, only we call them gulls, murres, arries, auks, chookies, sea-parrots, and cormorants. On the five or six acres of level surface offered by Walrus they are packed as tightly as sardines in a box; they are everlastingly quarrelling among themselves, and yet they are so perfectly fearless of man that they will scarcely move out of the way to avoid being stepped on. Yes, indeed, it is a sight you ought not to miss. A boat is sent over from here every few days after eggs, of which six men will collect several tons in as many hours. If I find that one is going over in time for you to make the trip, I will let you know, and I should advise you to take it.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Phil. “I should like it above all things.”

“There is another thing on hand just now,” continued the inspector, “that I think would interest you immensely. Have you ever seen a sea-lion?”

“Yes,” replied Phil, “I shot two only the other day.”

“Then you know what great ferocious-appearing monsters they are. Would you believe that a herd of them could be driven out on land, and kept for days at a time within a corral, or fence, of nothing but sticks, strings, and bits of fluttering cotton rags, such as a child could easily tear down?”

“No,” answered Phil. “It doesn’t seem possible.”

“Well, it is,” said the inspector, “and you can see that very thing to-morrow, if you care to visit Northeast Point. You see, as we kill all our seals for the year inside of a month, we made our last drive of this season to-day. A lot of our young men, being thus set at liberty, have gone over to Northeast to begin a sea-lion drive on their own account. The skins are valuable for making boats, you know, while the flesh is esteemed much more highly than that of a seal.”

“But how can they drive sea-lions?” asked Phil. “I thought they were so shy that a man couldn’t get near them.”

“So they are, and for that reason they can only be approached at night, when they are asleep on the beach, and then only by exercise of the utmost caution. The hunters creep along the beach, among its many bowlders, on all-fours, until they are between the herd and the water. Then they jump up with waving arms and a wild yelling that frightens the sea-lions almost out of their senses. Those that have been asleep, with their noses pointed towards the sea, rush into the water with such force that nothing could stop them, and so escape. At the same time, those who are so unfortunate as to be headed inland when thus rudely awakened, rush with equal precipitation in that direction. The natives close in behind them, dancing, brandishing weapons, screaming, making all sorts of frantic noises, and so drive them at a sort of a lumbering gallop for several hundred feet, when the frenzied animals, breathless and exhausted, fall panting to the ground. Instead of killing them where they are, the natives allow them to rest a few minutes. Then they rouse and urge them forward by all manner of devices, the most successful of which is the sudden opening of gingham umbrellas in their faces. When they have got the herd out of sight of the water, behind some sand-dune, they crowd them together and run a fence of strings around them in no time. The strings are supported by slender sticks thrust into the sand, each of which bears a bit of fluttering cotton cloth. Here the forty or fifty big brutes are as securely fenced as though behind stone walls, and here they remain for several weeks, or until three or four hundred of their kind have been secured and herded with them. During this time, instead of remaining stupidly quiet, as you might imagine, they are constantly on the alert, writhing, fighting, and climbing over each other with incessant motion.”

“Seems to me I never heard of anything so stupid!” exclaimed Phil.

“Did you ever hear of any one being afraid of ghosts?” asked the inspector.

“Yes, sir, I believe I have.”

“Well, it seems to me that such people are just as silly and stupid as the sea-lions, who are afraid of bits of fluttering cotton cloth. Doesn’t it to you?”

“Of course it does, sir!” answered the lad, heartily, for John Ryder had taught his son to regard all forms of superstition as the result of combined cowardice and ignorance. “But while I should hate to meet or know any person who is such a coward as to believe in and be afraid of ghosts, I should dearly love to see a herd of sea-lions in a corral of strings. So I think I will go over there to-morrow. I shall have plenty of time, sha’n’t I, Mr. Ramey?”

“Certainly,” replied the lieutenant, “you have still two days and two nights to spend ashore; or, rather, you have two whole days, for the nights here are so short now that they are hardly worth counting.”

“By-the-way, Ramey,” remarked the inspector, “speaking of nights, do you remember the questions you promised to look up for me when you were last here? One was whether sunlight was ever absent from all parts of the United States at once, and the other was, where is the centre of this country between the east and the west?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the lieutenant, “I do and I have looked them up. In summer the sun may always be seen from one part or another of United States territory; for it rises over Eastport, Maine, before it sets on Attu Island. As to the east-and-west centre of the country, it is—”

“Where do you say?” interrupted the inspector, and putting the question to Phil.

“Omaha,” was the prompt reply.

“Do you think so, too?” asked the inspector of Serge.

“No, sir. I should think it might be somewhere west of the Rocky Mountains.”

Phil laughed at this, but the inspector said: “Don’t laugh too soon, my lad, I expect he is more nearly right than you. How is it, Ramey?”

“They are both pretty far out in their guesses,” replied the young officer, delighted at this opportunity of exposing the ignorance of “these youngsters,” as he mentally termed them. “Omaha is away off the mark, and the ‘somewhere west of the Rocky Mountains’ is very indefinite. The truth is that Attu, the westernmost Aleutian island, being very nearly three thousand miles to the westward of San Francisco, makes that city practically the midway point. In reality, though, the point is still some sixty miles to the westward of the Golden Gate, while the exact geographical centre of the United States is at a point in the Pacific forty miles off the mouth of the Columbia River.”

“Well!” cried Phil, laughing. “So that is the case—”

“I can assure you that it is,” interrupted Mr. Ramey, stiffly, “for I made the calculations myself.”

“I had no intention of doubting the correctness of your figures,” responded Phil, in a tone that was painfully polite. “I was only about to say, if that is the case, when the seals leave here they seek winter-quarters in the very centre of the country.”

This Mr. Ramey considered a very flippant manner of treating a problem upon the solution of which he had exhausted his entire stock of mathematics, and it confirmed him in his opinion that this young Ryder was decidedly “fresh.”

Soon after this Captain Matthews and his third lieutenant returned to the cutter, while our lads visited the library, the hospital, the quaint Greek church, and the interiors of several native houses, which they found to be surprisingly neat and comfortable. Having thus seen all there was of interest in the immediate vicinity, they turned in to get a good night’s rest, preparatory to their long trip of the morrow.