‘Your wealth?’
‘Yes; for my father is much the richest man in this tribe—or in any tribe in these regions.’
I wondered what her father’s wealth consisted of. It couldn’t be the house—anybody could build its mate. It couldn’t be the furs—they were not valued. It couldn’t be the sledge, the dogs, the harpoons, the boat, the bone fish-hooks and needles, and such things—no, these were not wealth. Then what could it be that made this man so rich and brought this swarm of sordid suitors to his house? It seemed to me, finally, that the best way to find out would be to ask. So I did it. The girl was so manifestly gratified by the question that I saw she had been aching to have me ask it. She was suffering fully as much to tell as I was to know. She snuggled confidentially up to me and said:
‘Guess how much he is worth—you never can!’
I pretended to consider the matter deeply, she watching my anxious and labouring countenance with a devouring and delighted interest; and when, at last, I gave it up and begged her to appease my longing by telling me herself how much this polar Vanderbilt was worth, she put her mouth close to my ear and whispered, impressively:
‘Twenty-two fish-hooks—not bone, but foreign—made out of real iron!’
Then she sprang back dramatically, to observe the effect. I did my level best not to disappoint her. I turned pale and murmured:
‘Great Scott!’
‘It’s as true as you live, Mr. Twain!’
‘Lasca, you are deceiving me—you cannot mean it.’