“And he has succeeded,” cried Angut, who felt it his duty to stand up for the credit of his guest, though he greatly wished that he had on this occasion confined himself to sober truth.
A beaming expression forthwith took the place of surprise on every face, as it suddenly dawned upon the company that Ridroonee was to be classed with the funny dogs whose chief delight it is to recount fairy tales and other exaggerated stories, with a view to make the men shout, the women laugh, and the children squeak with amusement.
“Go on,” they cried; “tell us more.”
Rooney at once perceived his mistake, and the misfortune that had befallen him. His character for veracity was shaken. He felt that it would be better to say no more, to leave what he had said to be regarded as a fairy tale, and to confine himself entirely to simple matters, such as an Eskimo might credit. He looked at his friend Angut. Angut returned the look with profound gravity, almost sorrow. Evidently his faith in the Kablunet was severely shaken. “I’ll try them once more,” thought Rooney. “It won’t do to have a vast range of subjects tabooed just because they won’t believe. Come, I’ll try again.”
Putting on a look of intense earnestness, which was meant to carry irresistible conviction, he continued—
“We have kayaks—oomiaks—in my country, which are big enough to carry three or four times as many people as you have in this village.”
Another roar of laughter greeted this statement.
“Isn’t he a good liar?” whispered Arbalik’s mother.
“And so grave about it too,” replied Kunelik.
Red Rooney stopped.