“Say-ee!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Guess they got on to my listening in on the air. They’re talking in some new lingo. Guess it’s Eskimo. Here, Mr. Il-ay-ok, give me your ears.” He clamped the head-set over the Eskimo’s head.
“Oh! Ah-ne-ca!” the little man smiled broadly. “Yes. Talking Eskimo.”
“What do they say?” Mary exclaimed.
“Can’t tell now. Bye-and-bye.” The Eskimo waved her away.
“Let him alone,” Mark scolded. “It may be important, a shipwreck, or—or something.”
It was important, very important to at least three young people quite far away. It was not a shipwreck. An Eskimo girl was talking. Eskimo people are born story tellers, and Kud-lucy was telling a story to No-wad-luk, her little friend at Shishmaref Island. The story was long, but in her excitement she forgot all else.
As Mr. Il-ay-ok listened to the tiny Eskimo’s story, Mary waited in breathless silence. What will this story mean to me, she was asking herself. Perhaps much. Perhaps nothing at all.
Of a sudden Mr. Il-ay-ok dragged the head-set from his ears. “Gone!” he smiled broadly. “All over now.”
“Tell us!” Mary’s eyes shone. “What did they say?”
“Long story. Must tell all,” Mr. Il-ay-ok spoke slowly.