“Come and take us off!” shouted Phil. “Don’t you see that we are helpless?”
“How much you give?” asked a leathern-faced old Eskimo, who sat in the stern, and seemed to command the craft. “You give ten dollar?”
“Yes,” whispered Phil; “we will give you anything you want, when we get back to camp.”
“No; give him now.”
“But we haven’t any money with us.”
“Then me go. Good-bye.” The bidarrah actually began to move ahead, while the face of the old image in the stern was rendered still more hideous by a malicious grin.
“Hold on!” screamed Phil, in desperation. “I will give you this, and it is worth many times ten dollars.”
The bidarrah came a little closer, that the old man might see what was offered.
“All light,” he said, holding out his hand for the coveted prize.
In another moment the lads had crossed the narrow divide between a deadly danger and certain safety, and the fur-seal’s tooth had found a new owner.