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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.

The captain was captain only by courtesy.  He was an old man, past eighty, and blissfully ignorant of the sea and its ways; but he was the owner of the vessel, and hence the honorable title.  Of course the sailing-master, who was really captain, was a thorough-going seaman.  The mate, whose post was aboard, was out with the boats, having temporarily taken Chris’s place as boat-steerer.

When good weather and good sport came together, the boats were accustomed to range far and wide, and often did not return to the schooner until long after dark.  But for all that it was a perfect hunting day, Chris noted a growing anxiety on the part of the sailing-master.  He paced the deck nervously, and was constantly sweeping the horizon with his marine glasses.  Not a boat was in sight.  As sunset arrived, he even sent Chris aloft to the mizzen-topmast-head, but with no better luck.  The boats could not possibly be back before midnight.

Since noon the barometer had been falling with startling rapidity, and all the signs were ripe for a great storm—­how great, not even the sailing-master anticipated.  He and Chris set to work to prepare for it.  They put storm gaskets on the furled topsails, lowered and stowed the foresail and spanker and took in the two inner jibs.  In the one remaining jib they put a single reef, and a single reef in the mainsail.

Night had fallen before they finished, and with the darkness came the storm.  A low moan swept over the sea, and the wind struck the Sophie Sutherland flat.  But she righted quickly, and with the sailing-master at the wheel, sheered her bow into within five points of the wind.  Working as well as he could with his bandaged hand, and with the feeble aid of the Chinese cook, Chris went forward and backed the jib over to the weather side.  This with the flat mainsail, left the schooner hove to.