“You must!” sudden distress and rigid determination shone in the little man’s eyes.
“I must not,” replied Speed. There was a note of finality in his voice. “This is the hunting season. I have customers coming. I cannot wire them not to come then go zooming off on some wild goose chase to Nome. This is my harvest. How much money you got?” he asked suddenly.
“Unfortunately, no money,” Mr. Il-ay-ok’s face fell. “But you shall be paid,” he was up and at it again. “My people they have fox skins, very fine fox skins, red, white, cross fox, silver gray fox. You shall have many fox skins. You shall sell them for much money.”
“I’m afraid that won’t do.” Speed’s face sobered. In the little man’s face he had read sincere distress. Speed was a kindly soul. “It is truly impossible for me to give up my work now. Perhaps in three or four weeks—”
“Ah, yes!” the little man’s voice rose shrill and eager. “Before January the first?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“Oh!” Mary breathed, suddenly enchanted with a bright idea. “Before Christmas, you must!”
“What? You must go too?” Speed cried, banteringly.
“I—I might,” the girl could scarcely believe her voice, it was the first time she had ever thought of it. “Anyway,” she added hurriedly to conceal her embarrassment, “you are to be Santa Claus to a hundred Eskimo children.”
“If I am Santa Claus,” said Speed, seizing her hand, “you shall be little Miss Santa Claus. I don’t know what it is all about, but here, shake on it.” He gave her hand a hearty squeeze.