“White boy make stew for bear, mebbe. How that be, eh?”
“Not so good, not so good,” Fred had returned uncomfortably, while his companions roared with glee. “That isn’t in my program at all, now let me tell you.”
The boys had chuckled about it all the way down to the water’s edge. But after the boat had pushed off from shore and Kapje was guiding it skillfully among the crowding ice floes Bobby’s expression became more sober.
“Are polar bears thick around here? Do they find many of them?” he asked of the Eskimo. He and Fred were in Kapje’s boat while Billy and Mouser were with the younger Eskimo.
Kapje shook his head.
“No so much,” he replied in his funny English. “White bear—most never see him. Yellow bear—once a while. He fierce—fight bad—shoot.”
“What do you mean, yellow bear?” Fred asked curiously. “Aren’t all polar bears white?”
The Eskimo grunted as though in scorn of this lack of knowledge.
“White bear,” he proceeded to explain laboriously, “he not so fierce. He run. Yellow white bear or yellow bear—he dangerous. He no run; he fight. Shoot.”
“Well,” sighed Fred, resignedly, “yellow bear or white, I only hope we get a squint at him before we finish the trip.”