Johnny looked to the right and down the hill. The light of the clubroom was still burning. He beat a hasty retreat.
It was a surprised and startled group that looked him over as he appeared at the door, ragged, bruised and bloody. Eagerly they crowded about to hear his story.
When he had washed the blood from his face and drawn on clean shirt and trousers, he took a place by the open fire and told them—told them as only Johnny could.
“Well, what do you make of it?” He threw back his head and laughed a frank, boyish laugh, as he finished. “Some wild and woolly adventure, eh? Who were those little men? And what does it all mean?”
“Means the natives are getting superstitious about our effect on the spirits of their dead whales and are planning to treat us rough,” suggested Dave.
“Natives!” exploded Jarvis, “Them ain’t any natural ’eathen. Them’s ’eathen frum further down the sea. I ’ates to think what a ’ard lot they is. Dave and me’s seen a ’eap further north than this. ’E’s got spies everywhere, this ’eathen ’as.”
“Struck me a little that way too,” smiled Johnny. “That fellow I tore the clothes off was wearing silk undergarments. Show me the Chukche who wears any at all, let alone silk.”
“Sure!” exclaimed Jarvis.
“But if they’re around here, why don’t we see them?” objected one of the miners.
“The big cat’s ’ere. Johnny saw ’im,” scoffed Jarvis. “You ’aven’t seen ’im, ’ave you? All that’s about ain’t seen. Not by a ’ouse full.”