It seemed certain that but one of the Eskimos understood, the man who had made a futile attempt to rise.
“There is no caribou meat here,” he mumbled hoarsely.
“We have caribou meat for you, a sled load.”
Rolling himself into a half sitting position, the English speaking Eskimo said a few words in his own tongue.
The effect was electrical. It was as if a strong current had been sent through the motionless bodies that lay about on the deerskins. With one accord they began creeping, crawling, tumbling toward the entrance to the tent.
For this Johnny was prepared. Quickly unlashing the sled, he produced a quantity of roasted meat. This he cut into little squares and handed to the Eskimos.
They ate like famished wolves. Yet, in this extremity they did not forget their fellow villagers. When each had eaten a little they waved their hands toward the other tents.
Fortunately the remaining tents were not so crowded as this one. Sad to relate, two of the occupants were beyond human aid.
When night fell upon the white sweep of the tundra and the three rescue workers, worn out by the day’s excitement and labor, sought the little tent and the pile of deerskins that had been surrendered to their use, the dead had been carried to their last resting place and the living had been made as comfortable as possible. Then it was that they took stock of supplies and cast about for signs of the future.
“Looks rather hopeless,” Johnny said as he sank down upon the deerskins. “Food we have can’t do more than revive them. What next?”