Phil and Serge, in planning their expedition to Northeast Point to visit the sea-lion hunters, expected to walk the entire distance, which is about ten miles. At breakfast-time, however, they were told by the inspector that he had arranged to have them taken in a bidarrah, or large open boat, the wooden frame of which is covered with sea-lion skins. He also had a supply of provisions put up for them, had ordered out a crew of six men to row the bidarrah, and had taken every precaution to make their trip comfortable and enjoyable. The boat was to return that same day, and would bring the lads back in plenty of time for supper, which they had been invited to take with the priest of the little Greek church.

Although the morning was damp and chilly, both lads thoroughly enjoyed the unique trip up the coast. Phil had brought along his kamleika, which kept him perfectly dry, and Serge did not seem to mind the dampness any more than the natives themselves, who fairly revel in wet, foggy weather, and are never more uncomfortable than when the sun shines out warm, as it occasionally does, even over the Pribyloffs.

On the present trip there was just fog enough to keep the crew of the bidarrah in good spirits, without hanging so low as to conceal the shore line. Consequently, the wonderful seal-life in the water and on land, through and past which the boat moved, was plainly visible. From end to end of the island the coast was crowded with it, and by the time the bidarrah reached its destination Phil declared that he believed all the “sea-bears” of the world must be collected in that one place.

They found the camp of the hunting-party in and about an old native hut that reminded the visitors of the one they had occupied on Oonimak Island. It was behind a range of low sand-dunes, and just beyond it they caught sight of the chief attraction of the place, a small herd of sea-lions, great shaggy fellows, very much larger than seals, ramping and floundering about behind an enclosure of strings. The situation struck our lads as so comical that they laughed at it until they were actually tired with laughing. For an hour they watched the frantic efforts of the uncouth beasts to discover some point of escape that was not guarded by a fluttering white rag. At the end of that time they were called to dinner, which was served in the old hut, and which proved so much better than they expected that they ate it with real enjoyment.

One of the hunters who could speak a little English told them that if the wind proved favorable that night he and his companions would make another drive, and Phil declared that he meant to stay, in the hope of seeing it.

“It must be one of the most curious hunting scenes in the world,” he said, “and I shall probably never have another chance to see it. I don’t live in Alaska, you know; besides, I’d a thousand times rather spend a night out here than in the village, where I must breathe the awful-smelling air of the killing-grounds. So if you will make my excuses to the priest, like a good fellow, I think I’ll stay. We have plenty of time, you know.”

“All right,” replied Serge; “but as I want to see those queer old Russian books the priest promised to show us, I think I’ll go back in the bidarrah.”

As this boat was ready to leave directly after dinner, the lads bade each other good-bye, Phil promising to make his way to the village on foot early the following morning, so as to reach it in plenty of time to rejoin the Phoca.

After his friend’s departure he again visited the captive lions, and wondered, as he watched them, if they were the same as those he had read of on the so-called “seal rocks” of San Francisco. If his friend the inspector had been there, he would have told him they were not; that the seal-rock sea-lions were of a variety found only on the Californian coast, and that they do not attain more than half the size of their great Alaskan cousins.

When tired of this amusement Phil wandered to a point commanding a fine view of the great seal herds, and became so absorbed in watching them that the afternoon passed before he knew it, and he was surprised when the hunter who could speak English called him to an early supper. After it, Phil and this hunter went together to the beach, where, to the lad’s great disappointment, the latter said he feared there would be no sea-lion drive that night, as the wind showed signs of changing.

While they talked of this a boat appeared, coming from the direction of the village. One of its occupants, all of whom were natives, stepped ashore, and talked for a minute with the hunter.

“He says,” remarked the latter, turning to Phil, “that they are bound for Walrus Island after eggs, and that if you want to go they will take you. They will stay all night, but will start back for the village early in the morning.”

“That suits me!” exclaimed Phil; “so long as there isn’t to be any lion-hunt, a hunt for birds’ eggs in an Arctic rookery is the next best thing. Besides, if these fellows will carry me back to town in their boat, I shall be saved the long, lonely tramp, for which I didn’t care very much anyhow.”

With this Phil bade his hunter friend good-bye and stepped into the big boat, which was immediately shored off and headed for Walrus Islet, six miles away.

About an hour later the inmates of the hunting-camp were startled by the sudden appearance among them of Serge Belcofsky, hot and breathless, as though he had run all the way from the village.

“Where is my friend?” he shouted, darting searching glances about the dim interior.

“Gone to Morzovia for eggs,” replied the English-speaking hunter.

“Oh!” groaned Serge. “How could he do such a thing? Now we shall be too late, and the cutter will go without us.”

His distress was so real that, while not wholly understanding its cause, the good-natured Aleut took pity on him and said: “My bidarkie is here. It has two holes. If you like, we will go to Morzovia. You may then fetch your friend back. I will come in the bidarrah.”

Anything was better than a whole night of inaction. It was possible that the cutter would wait for them, and they might yet get back to the village in time. Thus thinking, Serge eagerly accepted this generous offer, and a few minutes later the light bidarkie was skimming the darkening waters of the open sea in the direction of Walrus Islet.

To understand the existing condition of affairs we must have been at the village about the time Phil and Serge were eating dinner with the sea-lion hunters. A newly-arrived steamer had just dropped anchor near the Phoca, and her master, a stoutly-built German named Kuhn, was on his way to visit and report to Captain Matthews. His ship was the Norsk, a tramp steamer from San Francisco, bound for the mouth of the great Yukon River, with men and supplies for a new Alaskan fur-trading company. He had touched at St. Paul for information and, if possible, to obtain a pilot.

More important than all the rest of his news, in Captain Matthews’ estimation, was that of a certain mysterious schooner which the master of the Norsk had seen in Oonalaska harbor. He could learn nothing definite as to her movements, but it was commonly reported that she had been chartered at a big price to go into Bering Sea after seal-skins.

“Confound these poachers!” exclaimed Captain Matthews. “I no sooner get rid of one than another appears. Mr. Ramey, you will please go ashore with the gig, intercept Mr. Ryder and Mr. Belcofsky the moment they return from Northeast Point, and bring them back with you. Tell them we shall leave for the southward the moment they get on board, and that at any rate we must be out of here before sunset.”

As the third lieutenant was rowed towards the village his mind was filled with unpleasant reflections. Those chaps were to come on board again, after all, and through them he would be made a butt of ridicule for the wardroom mess. It was tough luck, and he wished they were in Halifax, or some other distant port, at that moment, instead of on the seal island of St. Paul.

When he reached the landing he found that they had not returned. He also found the egg-bidarrah just about to start for an all-night’s trip to Walrus Islet. Now Mr. Ramey had picked up a fair knowledge of the Aleut language, armed with which, and a silver dollar, he approached the native skipper of the egg-boat. “The young white gentlemen,” he said, “wish very much to visit Morzovia. They are now coming in a bidarrah from Northeast Point. Here is a dollar, which is yours if you will kindly stop when you meet that bidarrah and invite them to go with you.”

The native willingly agreed to do this, and a moment later he had the satisfaction of seeing the egg-boat shove off. “The scheme may work, or it may not,” he said to himself. “At any rate, it is worth trying. It gives me one more chance, and it won’t hurt those young beggars to wait here a week or so longer, until some other ship comes along to take them off.”

Half-way up the coast the egg-boat met the other bidarrah, and Serge received an invitation to go to Walrus Islet, which he declined. When he reached the village he found Mr. Ramey patiently waiting.

“Where is Ryder?” asked the young officer.

“He decided to stay behind and spend the night with the hunters,” was the reply.

“Then he’ll be apt to get left, for the cutter is to sail as soon as you and I can get aboard.”

Serge was thunderstruck. For a moment he knew not what to do or say. Then a sudden plan flashed into his mind.

“Mr. Ramey,” he said, “I am going overland to fetch my friend: it is the quickest way. Will you kindly beg Captain Matthews to wait for us just as long as he can? I know we can be back before midnight.”

“Very well, Mr. Belcofsky; do as you please,” replied the officer. Then without another word Serge set off on a run for the distant point where he expected to find Phil.

Mr. Ramey returned to the ship and reported that he believed the young gentlemen had gone to Walrus Islet egg-hunting, and it was doubtful if they returned before the afternoon of the following day.

“The young scamps!” exclaimed Captain Matthews. “So they have given me the slip, after all! Well, I can’t wait for them now, but will come back and pick them up after we run down this new poacher.”

On hearing this Mr. Ramey was greatly troubled, and became filled with a fear that haunted him for some days.

So the Phoca sailed away, and her recent passengers were left behind.