“On board a whaler. Dat’s where Björk was,” proudly Christianson answered for him. “On de whaler up in Grantley Harbor, vhile I am down dere at Kwimkuk praying for help.” “But how could he leave his ship?” “Leedle boat,” said Christianson, laconic for once. “Oh, the captain let him off?” Christianson shook his pale locks. “You do not know vhat dey are—dose whaling captains.” “You don’t mean”—in his astonishment Cheviot addressed the dumb navigator again, as if given such a theme even he must at last find tongue—“you don’t mean you,” and then he halted, for there is something about the impact of the word “deserted” that men shy from, “you don’t mean you left the ship without leave?” Björk’s face never changed. But not so Christianson’s. He regarded his acolyte with a somber enthusiasm. “It was yoost like Björk. Say noddind. Yoost follow de call. Dat’s Björk!” “Pretty big risk, I should have thought.” At which, somewhat to Cheviot’s surprise, Björk gave a sharp little nod and Christianson showed his long yellow teeth in a rather horrible smile. Cheviot felt egged on to say, “Don’t they shoot deserters up here?” “_Yes!_” said Björk, speaking for the first time. “If dey find dem,” amended Christianson. Björk’s little eyes glittered. His thin lips moved faintly, as if they, too, would have smiled had they ever learned the trick of it. “And you came straight to Kwimkuk?” persisted Cheviot. “No, he land oop by Sinook,” Christianson said. “He see dat not de place he vas shown in de visshun, and dose whaler fellows after him de next day. Björk hide in de scrub villow, and creep along vid hands and knees. After two days he come to a native camp. Next morning he see out dere dat _Seagull_ comin’. But he haf anodder visshun. He know now he haf to get a squaw to hide him in de bottom ob a kyak, and take him like dat down de coast to Golovin. Terrible long journey! I am down dere on de shore, when de squaw beach de boat. I see Björk crawl out de hole in de middle, half dead, and look round. Look all round. Den I hear him say in Svedish, ‘Dis de place!’ and I say, ‘Vad Plads?’ leedle surprised, and he come right away up to me, and he say ‘De Lord sent me.’ So I see he vas de man I pray for.” “Oh! And when he isn’t managing a boat—up at the mission, what does Mr. Björk do?” “Oh, he help,” said Christianson, with unshakable satisfaction in the answer to his prayer. “Better as anybody he can preach.” “_Preach?_” echoed Cheviot, not believing his ears. “Yes, Björk not talk _mooch_, except vhen he is in de pulpit or vhen he haf a refelation.” Well, they were odd Hausgenossen for Hildegarde’s father! “How long had Mr. Mar been with them,” Cheviot asked. Ten or eleven months. He had got to St. Michaels too late last year to reach the Klondike. He just had time to go and take a look at Golovin Bay, when the winter overtook him at Kwimkuk. So he stayed there.