“They’ve found us,” the old man muttered.
“Who?”
“Who knows?” was his strange answer. “No good ever comes from spying.”
CHAPTER XIX
COASTING UP HILL
At very nearly that same hour a blue and gray airplane rose from the frozen sea near Anchorage. Its passengers were only two, a dark-eyed, animated girl, and a stolid little Eskimo man. At the controls was Speed Samson. You will not need a second guess as to who the passengers were, nor the nature of the cargo they carried. Little Miss Santa Claus, who in real life was Mary Hughes, had her pack securely stowed away in the baggage compartment of the plane. She was on her way.
Two hours later she found herself drawing her mackinaw closely about her. It was cold in the small cabin of their airplane, stinging cold. How high were they in air? She did not know. How far north were they? She did not know. She was not thinking of that so much, but of the whole strange adventure.
It had taken courage to say “yes” at last. The postmaster in Anchorage had listened to their story with interest, but he hesitated to give his consent to their airplane delivery of the packages of Christmas presents to Cape Prince of Wales. “It is quite irregular,” he had said, “and you might never get there. It’s a great white world you are going into. There are few landing fields.”
“That is true,” Speed had agreed. “However, I’ve never yet taken off for any destination and failed to arrive.”
“And besides,” Mary had put in, “if we don’t take their presents, they won’t arrive until Fourth of July, when the boats come. And what’s the good of Christmas presents on the Fourth of July?”
“What indeed?” the gray-haired postmaster had smiled. Finally he surrendered and gave his consent.