“Who does a man’s work,” Chris retorted.  “And because I do a man’s work I have as much right to call you by your first name as you me.  We are all equals in this fo’castle, and you know it.  When we signed for the voyage in San Francisco, we signed as sailors on the Sophie Sutherland and there was no difference made with any of us.  Haven’t I always done my work?  Did I ever shirk?  Did you or any other man ever have to take a wheel for me?  Or a lookout?  Or go aloft?”

“Chris is right,” interrupted a young English sailor.  “No man has had to do a tap of his work yet.  He signed as good as any of us, and he’s shown himself as good—­”

“Better!” broke in a Nova Scotia man.  “Better than some of us!  When we struck the sealing-grounds he turned out to be next to the best boat-steerer aboard.  Only French Louis, who’d been at it for years, could beat him.  I’m only a boat-puller, and you’re only a boat-puller, too, Emil Johansen, for all your twenty-two years at sea.  Why don’t you become a boat-steerer?”

“Too clumsy,” laughed the Englishman, “and too slow.”

“Little that counts, one way or the other,” joined in Dane Jurgensen, coming to the aid of his Scandinavian brother.  “Emil is a man grown and an able seaman; the boy is neither.”

And so the argument raged back and forth, the Swedes, Norwegians and Danes, because of race kinship, taking the part of Johansen, and the English, Canadians and Americans taking the part of Chris. From an unprejudiced point of view, the right was on the side of Chris. As he had truly said, he did a man’s work, and the same work that any of them did.  But they were prejudiced, and badly so, and out of the words which passed rose a standing quarrel which divided the forecastle into two parties.

* * * * *

The Sophie Sutherland was a seal-hunter, registered out of San Francisco, and engaged in hunting the furry sea-animals along the Japanese coast north to Bering Sea.  The other vessels were two-masted schooners, but she was a three-master and the largest in the fleet.  In fact, she was a full-rigged, three-topmast schooner, newly built.

Although Chris Farrington knew that justice was with him, and that he performed all his work faithfully and well, many a time, in secret thought, he longed for some pressing emergency to arise whereby he could demonstrate to the Scandinavian seamen that he also was an able seaman.

But one stormy night, by an accident for which he was in nowise accountable, in overhauling a spare anchor-chain he had all the fingers of his left hand badly crushed.  And his hopes were likewise crushed, for it was impossible for him to continue hunting with the boats, and he was forced to stay idly aboard until his fingers should heal.  Yet, although he little dreamed it, this very accident was to give him the long-looked-for opportunity.

One afternoon in the latter part of May the Sophie Sutherland rolled sluggishly in a breathless calm.  The seals were abundant, the hunting good, and the boats were all away and out of sight.  And with them was almost every man of the crew.  Besides Chris, there remained only the captain, the sailing-master and the Chinese cook.