“There’ll be trouble if they come back,” she thought. “Trouble. Troub—” At that she fell fast asleep.
CHAPTER XVIII
TO BE OR NOT TO BE
In the meantime life did not lack for excitement back in the Matamuska valley. Strange tales had come to Mary both by mail and by air. Brought by air-mail, two letters from Florence had reached her. They told of the lost mine, of the dog race that was to be run and of the all too exciting life the big girl was living in the far North.
“Miss Santa Claus,” Mary whispered when she had read those letters twice. “Speed Samson said I should be little Miss Santa Claus.” She was thinking of those delayed Christmas presents to the Eskimo children still lying there in the postoffice in Anchorage. As she closed her eyes she tried to picture the miles and miles of timber, tundra, and endless snow she must fly over to reach that strange land.
“Speed Samson will take Mr. Il-ay-ok up there,” she whispered. “I could go too and take all those presents. I wonder—”
Yes, it did seem probable that when the hunting season was over, Speed would, taking a chance of being paid in fox skins, fly the little Eskimo to his home. Truth is, he was growing very fond of the little man. Having taken him along on a hunting trip he discovered that he was a capital cook and that he could prepare meat in a manner that delighted his guest-hunters. After that he took him often.
It was on one of these occasions that something happened which made Mary’s dreams of becoming “little Miss Santa Claus” lighter and brighter. Speed carried a short-wave radio in his plane. It was on this evening, after he had landed on the little lake at Rainbow Farm, planning to stay all night, that the thing happened. Mary, Mark, and Mr. Il-ay-ok were in the cabin of the plane taking turns at listening to the radio. Speed himself had the head-set clamped over his head when suddenly he exclaimed:
“It’s some cute kids way up at Cape Prince of Wales. School teacher’s children or something. Big brother’s rigged up a short-wave outfit. They think they’re talking only to some people on a small island seventy miles away, but it’s going out over the air. Something about a Christmas tree made of willow branches and a driftwood log. Seems there was to have been quite a Christmas up there, dolls, toys, candy, everything. The presents—”
“Yes! Yes! I know!” Mary broke in. “The presents didn’t come. Too late for the boat. They’re in Anchorage now.”
“Is that a fact?” Speed stared at her in surprise.