At least some of the castaways from the schooner Kalrye were right ahead of Tom’s party. The booming voice of the excitable Wakefield Damon and his “blessing” could never be mistaken by anybody who knew him at all!
Captain Olaf Karofsen burst into a great roar of laughter, and, cheering loudly, he strode ahead along the passage.
“We bane findt dem fellers!” he bawled. “Misder Damon! How you vas now—yes?”
The others heard Mr. Damon cry:
“Here’s that Skowegian, Nestor! Captain of the Kalrye. What do you know about this? Bless my divining rod! I never expected to see him again.”
The whole party, including Tom, followed the big captain. They rushed into a circular chamber in the ice. In the middle was a small fire burning on a piece of copper sheathing, set up on empty bean cans to keep the heat from the floor of the chamber.
There were only two persons present, both wrapped well in furs. They had been eating some cooked fish of some kind and drinking tea from tin pannikins. The man who had first got up to greet the newcomers was Mr. Wakefield Damon.
“Bless my horn spectacles!” he gasped, staring. “Is that Tom Swift I see? And Koku? And Ned Newton? Bless my imagination! I certainly must be seeing things.”
“You surely are, Mr. Damon!” cried Ned. “You are seeing a bunch of castaways—just as much cast away as you are.”
But Tom gave his closest attention to the other man—the man who still sat before the fire. There was no mistaking him, yet he looked so different from the wan and almost helpless man who had left Shopton for the Arctic weeks before that the young inventor could scarcely believe he was Mary Nestor’s father.