a sound of firing from up the river that he imagined a
fight to be in progress, and fired one of his own big guns to give
warning of his presence.

The effect of this dread message was instantaneous. Phil Ryder dropped
his uplifted arm. The Chilkat Shaman scuttled away, issued an order, and
within five minutes a new and perfectly equipped canoe was marvellously
produced from somewhere and tendered to Serge Belcofsky. Five minutes
later he and his companions had taken a grateful leave of the Princess,
and were embarked with all their effects, including the three dogs.

Phil stationed himself in the bow, Serge tended sheet, and Jalap Coombs
steered. As before the prevailing northerly wind their long-beaked canoe
shot out from the river into the wider waters of the inlet, and they
saw, at anchor, less than one mile away, a handsome cutter flying the
United States revenue flag, the three friends uttered a simultaneous cry
of, "The _Phoca_!"

"Hurrah!" yelled Phil.

"Hurrah!" echoed Serge.

"Bless her pretty picter!" roared Jalap Coombs, standing up and waving
the old tarpaulin hat that, though often eclipsed by a fur hood, had
been faithfully cherished during the entire journey.

At that moment one of the cutter's boats, in command of a strange
Lieutenant, with a howitzer mounted in its bow, and manned by a dozen
heavily armed sailors, hailed the canoe and shot alongside.

"What's the trouble up the river?" demanded the officer.

"There isn't any," answered Serge.

"What was all the firing about?"

"Celebrating some sort of native Fourth of July. Is Captain Matthews
still in command of the _Phoca_?"

"Yes. Does he know you?"

"I rather guess he does, and, with your permission, we'll report to him
in person."

"Pull up the hoods of your parkas," said Phil to his companions, "and
we'll give the Captain a surprise party."

A minute later one of the _Phoca_'s Quartermasters reported to the
Captain that a canoe-load of natives was almost alongside.

"Very well; let them come aboard, and I'll hear what they have to say."

In vain did the Quartermaster strive to direct the canoe to the port
gangway. The natives did not seem to understand, and insisted on
rounding up under the starboard quarter, reserved for officers and
distinguished guests. One of them sprang out the moment its bow touched
the side steps, clambered aboard, pushed aside the wrathful
Quartermaster, and started for the Captain's door with the sa