As though the movement of these two broke the spell the boys were under, they rushed forward, bombarding Bobby with questions and clapping him on the back, while they fairly wrung his hand off.
But the natives, a new expression replacing the wonder in their eyes, shoved the boys aside, holding out their great, fur-mittened hands.
The son of Kapje shook hands with him first, pumping his arm up and down solemnly.
“You save life of Eskimo—he thank you,” was all he said, but there was a look of doglike devotion in his eyes.
Kapje came next, and his grip was even stronger than his son’s.
“Eskimo bad enemy—good friend—very good,” he said simply. “You save him life—he no forget.”
That was all, but it was enough to make Bobby understand that he had made two friends who would serve him faithfully and willingly for as long as he needed them.
He looked from the smoking rifle in his hand to the body of the great bear and laughed a little shakily.
“I don’t know how I did it myself,” he admitted, adding with interest: “How did the bear manage to slip up on you like that, with your guns several yards away from you?”
The younger Eskimo turned away and Kapje dropped his eyes to the ground as though sorely embarrassed.