“Alaska? Do these reindeer come from there?”
Art nodded.
“Look at ’em. They’re tame. Must’a winded us, but that don’t scare ’em none. They’re used to humans. No more scared o’ bein’ hunted than cattle are back in the States.”
“Tame?” queried Frank. “What do you mean?”
“Why, the Eskimos in Alaska, not the wild one, of this Far North, but the regular ones that come in touch with the white man, they keep herds o’ reindeer just like a farmer in the States keeps cows. Look at ’em. Must be two-three hundred there right now. They’re eight-ten hundred miles from home, too. Must ’a wandered away. Bet you there’s a desprit Eskimo lookin’ for ’em right now.”
Jack looked thoughtful.
“What a shame for a man to lose a big herd like that,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” affirmed Art emphatically. “Must be six-seven thousand dollars worth o’ tame reindeer there. Pretty tough.”
“We can’t do anything about it, though,” said Bob.
“Seems a pity-like we can’t ride herd on ’em till some Eskimo shows up to claim ’em,” said Art. “But it can’t be done. Yore father, Jack, is all for pushin’ on fast as we kin.”