“Polar bear!” cried Fred, pausing with a spoon filled to overflowing with stew, half raised to his mouth. “Great Scott! do you have many of them around here?”
One of the Eskimos shook his head sadly.
“Not so many we like,” he said. “They go furder an’ furder north all time.”
Fred looked disappointed.
“Tough luck,” he said. “I was hoping we might have a friendly little row with one of them while we were in this neighborhood.”
“Cheer up,” said Bobby, happily digging into his third dish of stew. “After the luck we had to-night anything good may happen to us.”
“Well,” broke in Billy, with a comical look of alarm, “if you call coming to grips with a polar bear good luck, I’d like to know your idea of bad luck!”
“Listen at him!” mourned Mouser.
“And after he knows what good stew they make, too,” added Fred.
“Oh, I’ve nothing against the stew—” began Billy, at which Bobby broke in with a grin: “We’ve noticed that.” He then turned to the Eskimo who sat nearest him. “We’re looking for a man named Mooloo,” he said eagerly. “Do you know him?”