"The Russian," he decided, "evidently hasn't forgotten his diamonds."
CHAPTER VIII
WHEN AN ESKIMO BECOMES A JAP
Johnny Thompson smiled as he drew on a pair of rabbit skin trousers, then a parka made of striped ground squirrel skin, finished with a hood of wolf skin. It was not his own suit; it had been borrowed from his host, a husky young hunter of East Cape. But that was not his reason for smiling. He was amused at the thought of the preposterous misunderstanding which his traveling companions had concerning him.
Only the day before he had exclaimed:
"Iyok-ok, I believe I have guessed why the Russian wants to kill me."
"Why?"
"He thinks I am a member of the United States Secret Service."
"Well? Canak-ti-ma-na" (I don't know).