With a wildly beating heart Lucile waited at her side.
But the door did not open. "It's stuck," whispered Marian. "I—I guess you'll have to help me."
Reluctantly laying down the knife, Lucile put both hands over Marian's and exerted all her strength in a pull.
The next instant the door gave way, but instead of being permanently held by the chain, it was only momentarily checked by it, then flew wide open, sending both girls crashing to the floor. The rusty staple had broken.
Too frightened to breathe they scrambled to their feet. Lucile fumbled about for the knife. Marian seized the door to close it. Then in one breath they exclaimed, "Why, it's only an Eskimo boy!"
It was true. Before them on the snow, peering white-faced at them, was a native boy, probably not over ten years old.
He dragged himself to a sitting position, then attempted to rise. At this he failed, and fell over again.
"He must be injured," said Marian.
"Or starved," answered Lucile.
It was plain that the boy was at this time quite as much frightened as had been the girls a moment before.