He was halfway down before he caught the first glimpse of the village. Beneath him lay some brown cubes which he knew to be boxlike upper stories to the houses of the natives.
"That settles one thing," he murmured. "They're islanders. The natives of Russia build their homes of poles, deerskin and walrus-skin, tepee fashion; the American natives use logs and sod. Only islanders build them of rocks."
For a moment his courage failed him. He was a boy on an island somewhere in the Arctic, his only companion an old and harmless dog, his only weapon a hunting knife; and he was about to enter a village filled with natives.
"Perhaps," he said slowly, looking down into the trusting eyes of the dog, "we had better wait. They may all be on a grand spree. And if they are it won't be safe. Whatever they may be when they're sober, they'll be dangerous enough when drunk."
But the peaceful quiet of the village, as it lay there some hundreds of feet below, reassured him.
"Come on, old boy," he said at last, "we'll chance it."
CHAPTER XIX
MYSTERIES EXPLAINED
There was little time left to the girls for wondering after the fire against the boarded-up house had been extinguished, for the entire throng burst in upon them. This time, apparently as eager to welcome them as they had been a few minutes before to destroy them, they rushed up to grasp their hands and mumble:
"Me-con-a-muck! Il-e-con-a-muck!"