We killed seals by sequestrating the bulls, surrounding them, and clubbing them at a certain point of the forehead. It was surprising to see how hard they fought, and how quickly they succumbed to a blow properly directed. Then we stripped the mask with its bristle of long whiskers, took the gall, and dragged the carcass into the surf where it was devoured by fish. At first the men, pleased by the novelty, stripped the skins. The blubber, often two or three inches in thickness, had then to be cut away from the pelt, cube by cube. It was a long, an oily, and odoriferous job. We stunk mightily of seal oil; our garments were shiny with it, the very pores of our skins seemed to ooze it. And even after the pelt was fairly well cleared, it had still to be tanned. Percy Darrow suggested the method, but the process was long, and generally unsatisfactory. With the acquisition of the fifth greasy, heavy, and ill-smelling piece of fur the men's interest in peltries waned. They confined themselves in all strictness to the "trimmings." Percy Darrow showed us how to clean the whiskers. The process was evil. The masks were, quite simply, to be advanced so far in the way of putrefaction that the bristles would part readily from their sockets. The first batch the men hung out on a line. A few moments later we heard a mighty squawking, and rushed out to find the island ravens making off with the entire catch. Protection of netting had to be rigged. We caught seals for a month or so. There was novelty in it, and it satisfied the lust for killing. As time went on, the bulls grew warier. Then we made expeditions to outlying rocks. Later Handy Solomon approached me on another diplomatic errand. "The seals is getting shy, sir," said he. "They are," said I. "The only way to do is to shoot them," said he. "Quite like," I agreed. A pause ensued. "We've got no cartridges," he insinuated. "And you've taken charge of my rifle," I pointed out. "Oh, not a bit, sir," he cried. "Thrackles, he just took it to clean it--you can have it whenever you want it, sir." "I have no cartridges--as you have observed," said I. "There's plenty aboard," he suggested. "And they're in very good hands there," said I. He ruminated a moment, polishing the steel of his hook against the other arm of his shirt. Suddenly he looked up at me with a humorous twinkle. "You're afraid of us!" he accused. I was silent, not knowing just how to meet so direct an attack. "No need to be," he continued. I said nothing. He looked at me shrewdly; then stood off on another tack.