It is agreed by the captains of the _Oriole_ and _Seabird_ as follows: The captain’s boat of the _Seabird_ struck a bowhead in the Okhotsk sea. The harpoons held, but the lines parted, and the bowhead made off. Two _Seabird’s_ boats followed the whale in the direction he took. It was a long pull, for the whale was out of sight. At last the two boats came up to where a boat of the _Oriole_ had struck and was killing a bowhead. The mate of the _Oriole_ used the lance and the bowhead rolled over after the Seabird’s boats had arrived on the spot. The captain of the Seabird claimed the whale as belonging to his ship, and the mate of the _Oriole_ denied the claim. While a discussion was going on, the captain of the _Oriole_ came up in his boat and interfered, and it was agreed between the captains that they should examine the whale to see if there were fresh harpoons in him. Pretty soon they found two with a small end of line attached in each case. On washing the irons, they found in them the cypher which showed that the irons belonged to the _Seabird_. Both captains lay claim to the whale. They have drawn up this agreement for the benefit of their owners, and, if their owners cannot agree as to who owns the whale, then this statement may be used in court as a true statement of the facts, if the court agrees to its being used. Both of us have signed our names hereto. When I had made a good copy of the above stipulation, that is, as good a copy as I could make with the worthless pen, I passed the paper over to my superiors for them to sign. “You sign first, Gates.” “No, you sign first, Gamans.” “I’ve got a little rheumatism in my hand, Gates.” “I’ve got a kink in my forefinger, Gamans.” I wanted to say, “What is the use of making all this fuss? Neither of you can hardly more than sign his name, but that’s no disgrace. Some of the ablest captains have little education and, if they had been educated, they probably never would have risen to be captains. And here you two men are acting like old women who, when they sign their names, give all manner of excuses because their handwriting is so poor.” “Give me the pen, then,” said our captain. It took a mighty effort for him to write his name. He twisted his body and cramped his fingers, and, when the task was over, handed me the pen with a gesture of impatience. I said, in a very respectful tone, “Don’t you think you had better write underneath the words, ‘Captain of the _Seabird?_’” “Look here, young fellow, do you suppose I am going to write a book?” he replied, sharply. “The boy’s right, Gamans.” “I think it will do no harm if I do it for you, as you have written your name in full,” I suggested. “Go ahead, then.”