“Yes. Like them down there!” the man exploded. “I wish to—they’d get the things going. He might escape me, your polite, greasy little Es-ki-mo.
“‘Dear little Es-ki-mo,’” he chanted hoarsely, “‘Leave all your ice and snow. Come play with me.’ I used to sing that in school. Can you e-mag-ine!” His laugh rose louder than before. Then, of a sudden, it faded. Footsteps were heard approaching.
“Well,” Mark said cheerfully. “Everything is O. K. We’ll be out of here in twenty-four hours.”
“Good! That-a-boy!” Peter Loome patted him on the back.
As for Mary, she suddenly found herself wishing that their stay here might be prolonged, she was thinking of the polite little man who called himself “Mr. Il-ay-ok.”
CHAPTER IX
HELP FROM THE SKY
True to Mark’s prophecy, dawn of the following day found them on the move. By the light of a candle, hotcakes and coffee had been stowed away under their belts. Now they were ready to pack up.
As Mary stepped from the tent her eyes fell upon a pair of lifeless eyes that seemed to stare down upon her. One of the hunters had killed a moose. All this time, well out of the reach of thieving wild creatures, its head had hung there in a tree. It seemed now a little strange that those dead eyes could give her such a start.
“Nonsense!” she whispered, stamping her foot. “Enough to dread without that.” And indeed there was. Despite the fact that the men agreed on the solidness of the ice, she dreaded the take-off. What if the ice were thinner in some places than at others? What if it should give way at just the wrong time? What of the planes? Were they truly fit for service? And what of those hand-made skis? All these fears were banished by the excitement of breaking camp. Tents were taken down, bedding was made into bundles, and bags were packed. Bill, now quite able to walk, but with arms still smothered in bandages, was helped down the trail.
Mary thrilled anew as she approached the small blue and gray plane. “A ticket to adventure,” she whispered for the hundredth time. Then her face sobered. Was this to be the end of adventure or only its beginning? An hour’s safe flying would bring them to the cabin where there awaited dishes to wash, beds to make, paths to shovel, all the daily round. “Yes,” she told herself with renewed interest, “yes, and Madam Chicaski to wonder about. Where adventure ends, mystery begins.”