“Did the wolves attack him?”
“It looks that way. I think the horses got frightened and ran away. They seemed to have tipped him and the sleigh robes over into the snow. I tell you, we reached him just in time, or those hungry brutes would have had him.”
The rescued man came up to the fire, removing his gloves and extending his chilled hands towards the grateful blaze. One coat sleeve had been ripped from end to end in his encounter with the wolves, his face bore a deep scratch. Otherwise he seemed uninjured from his recent thrilling experience.
He glanced strangely and then with interest at the three boys in turn. He stared hard as his eye fell upon the biplane. His glance lingered upon it in a puzzled, studious way. Finally he turned to its pilot, and extended his hands upwards, as if imitating a bird flying. Dave nodded.
Then the man spoke. From the deep gutterals, mingled long drawn out words and “skis.” Dave decided that he was speaking in the Russian tongue, and shook his head. More mellow and natural sounding, some words followed which Dave took to be French. He smiled, but showed that he did not yet understand.
“It is English, then?” spoke the man, with very fair pronunciation.
“Yes, English—American,” replied Dave, pleased to be understood. “We stopped our airship here on account of the storm.”
“It is so?” answered the man. “A few versts further, and you would have reached the station. That is Mokiva. I am the superintendent. You shall come there to share the best I have. You have saved my poor life.”
And then quite solemnly the man went the rounds. He shook each of his young friends by the hand, looking them steadily in the eyes.
Hiram hurried up the meal, got some hot coffee ready, and passed it around. It warmed up, and acted as an excellent accompaniment to some canned pork and beans, some toasted cheese, and plenty of crackers.