The moment the cubes disappeared the wild chorus ceased and the natives crowded forward to extend a hearty welcome.
It was, however, a very long time before one of them was persuaded to come near the airplane.
"I haven't a doubt," said the Major, "that they still believe that we rode here on the back of old Thunder-bird himself. And why not? If we can build schooners many times as large as their largest skin-boats and run them by noise alone, if we can kill at a distance by a magic of great noises, why couldn't we tame the Thunder-bird himself and make him carry us? It is my firm conviction that if one of us were to return here in a year or two, he would hear the most outlandish tales of the Kabluna who rode the Thunder-bird."
The natives had returned to their camp to dress and to repair the damage done by the airplane. The white men were approaching what appeared to be the den of the bearded stranger, when the Major gave a cry of joy:
"Masts! Boys, we have finished the first lap of our journey. The den of the stranger is the cabin to his schooner. He is the trader who is to furnish us gasoline!"
The Major's surmise proved to be correct, and they were soon sitting happily around a rough galley table, sipping at steaming "mulligan"—a rich Arctic stew—and coffee.
"And now," said the Major, "for a few hours of sleep. After that your time is your own for twelve hours."
"Twelve hours!" exclaimed Bruce in surprise. "Don't we start for the
Pole at once?"
"Young gentlemen," said the Major smiling, "your enthusiasm is gratifying in the extreme. But flying, especially in high latitudes, is very trying on the nerves—even such nerves as yours. Remember that in the Arctic, where anything at all is liable to happen at a moment's notice, we must always be at our best. So get some relaxation. What will you do with your twelve hours?"
"I heard a walrus barking a half-hour ago!" exclaimed Barney eagerly.