So they went without him. Well armed were they, and provisioned for a day at all events.
Somewhat to their surprise, they found smoke issuing from the once deserted huts, while a whole pack of dogs started up from where they had been lying and attempted to bar their progress. But the same two hardy chiefs of the Eskimos whom we last saw speeding along over the sea of ice, with the snow-wind roaring around them, came forth, quieted the dogs, and bade them kindly welcome.
In their broken English they told them the tale of their adventurous journey across the pack from the far-off western land of Greenland, and of the narrow escape they had had from the violence of the sudden storm.
Then they led the way, not into one of the small huts, but into the large central one.
“We are making him fit and warm and good,” they explained, “for our big ’Melican masta. He come directly. To-day we see his boat not far off—a two-stick boat, with plenty mooch sail.”
The “two-stick boat” which the chiefs referred to was a saucy little Yankee yacht, that on this very morning was cruising off the island.
Our heroes spent several hours in the hut, seated by the blazing logs, listening delightedly to a description of the strange country these chiefs called their home—a country that few white men have ever yet visited, and where certainly none have ever wintered.
But I cannot repeat all the strangers told them about the manners and customs of their countrymen, the dress of the men and women, their fishing and hunting exploits, their fierce though petty wars with other tribes, and the wonderful life they lead throughout the summer and during the long, drear, sunless season of winter.
“Ah!” said Rory, with a bit of a sigh, “I do like to hear these men talk about their wild land in the Far West. We must come again and make them tell us a deal more. I’ve half a mind to set out with them when they return, and live among them for some months. I say, Ray, wouldn’t it be glorious to go surging over the ice-fields drawn by a hundred fleet-footed hounds?”
“Drawn by a hundred hounds!” cried Allan, laughing. “Draw it mild, Rory.”