damp an' they keep better in the magazine in the cabin. What they
shootin' at? Bottles?"

Sandy, the roustabout, had been requisitioned to toss up empty bottles,
and those who failed cursed him for a poor thrower. A hunter named
Deming made no misses, and secured first prize of ten dollars in gold,
with a man named Beale scoring two behind him, and getting half that
amount from Carlsen.

Then came the test with the rifles. The weapons were all of the same
caliber, well oiled, and in perfect condition. As Lund had said, each of
the hunters had a few shells in his possession, but they lacked the
total of six dozen by a considerable margin.

Carlsen went below for the necessary ammunition while the target was
completed and set in place. A keg had been rigged with a weight
underslung to keep it upright, and a tin can, painted white, set on a
short spar in one end of the keg. A light line was attached to a bridle,
and the mark lowered over the stern, where it rode, bobbing in the tail
of the schooner's wake, thirty fathoms from the taffrail where the crowd
gathered.

Carlsen, returning, ordered Hansen to steer fine. He gave each
competitor a limit of ten seconds for his aim, contributing an element
of chance that made the contest a sporting one. Without the counting,
each would have deliberately waited for the most favorable moment when
the schooner hung in the trough and the white can was backed by green
water. As it was, it made a far-from-easy mark, slithering, lurching,
dipping as the _Karluk_ slid down a wave or met a fresh one, the can
often blurred against the blobs of foam.

More bullets hit the keg than the can, and Carlsen was often called upon
as umpire. But the tin gradually became ragged and blotched where the
steel-jacketed missiles tore through. Beale and Deming both had five
clean, undisputed hits, tying for first prize. Beale offered to shoot it
off with six more shells apiece, and Deming consented.

"Can't be done," declared Carlsen. "Not right now, anyway. I gave out
the last shell there was in the magazine. If there are any more the
skipper's got them stowed away, and I can't disturb him."

"Derned funny," said Deming, "a sealer shy on cartridges! Lucky we ain't
worryin' about thet sort of a cargo."

"Probably plenty aboard somewhere," said Carlsen, "but I don't know
where they are. Sorry to break up the shooting. You boys have got me
beaten on rifles and shotguns," he went on, producing from hi