It was the heart of the Arctic summer and the high hills that rose all about the town were green with deep grass--it looked as if it would reach a man's waist--and ablaze with wild flowers. I was surprised to see such a riot of blooms in this far northern latitude, but there they were, and every off-shore breeze was sweet with their fragrance. The village was dingy enough, but the country looked alluring and, as the day after we dropped anchor was Sunday and nothing to do aboard, the crew decided to ask for a day's liberty ashore. Bill White, the Englishman, and Slim, our Royal Life Guardsman, agreed to act as the forecastle's ambassadors to the cabin. They dressed up in their smartest clothes and went aft to interview Captain Shorey on the quarter-deck. White made the speech of the occasion and proffered the forecastle's request in his best rhetoric. Captain Shorey puffed silently at his cigar. "I'll see about it," he said. That closed the incident as far as the captain was concerned. We got no shore leave. As the day wore away and the desired permission failed to materialize, the forecastle became piqued at what it considered the skipper's gratuitous ungraciousness. Slim waxed particularly indignant. "He'll 'see about it,'" Slim sneered. "He never had no idea of letting us go in the first place. He's a cold-blooded son of a sea cook--that's what he is--and as for me, I'll never do another tap of work aboard the bloody hooker." This was strong language. Of course, none of us took it seriously, feeling sure Slim would reconsider by the next morning and turn to for work with the rest of us. But we did not know Slim. Bright and early Monday morning, the men mustered on deck and went to work, but Slim remained in his bunk. Having rowed our whale bone to the dock and stored it in a warehouse to await the first steamer for San Francisco, a boat's crew towed three or four hogsheads roped together ashore for water. Another boat went ashore for coal. Those left aboard the brig were put to work in the hold near the main hatch under the supervision of Mr. Winchester. The mate suddenly noted Slim's absence. "Where's Slim?" he asked. Nobody answered. "He didn't go ashore in the boats," said the mate. "Where is he?" Someone volunteered that Slim was sick. "Sick, eh?" said the mate. He hustled off to the forecastle scuttle. "Slim," he sang out, "what's the matter with you?" "I'm sick," responded Slim from his bunk. "If you're sick," said the mate, "come aft and report yourself sick to the captain." In a little while, Slim shuffled back to the cabin. A few minutes later wild yells came from the cabin. We stopped work. The mate seemed to think we might rush to the rescue. [Illustration: Hoisting the Blubber Aboard] "Get busy there," he roared. "Slew that cask around."