“I mean, Mr. Hacket, that but for your confounded Hans of Iceland I should have been here before the owl’s first hoot.”
“Indeed! and what did he do to you?”
“Oh, do not ask me. I only hope that my beard may turn as white as an ermine’s skin in a single day if I am ever caught again hunting a white bear, since I escaped this time with my life.”
“Did you come near being eaten by a bear?”
Kennybol shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.
“A bear! a terrible foe that would be! Kennybol eaten by a bear! For what do you take me, Mr. Hacket?”
“Oh, pardon me!” said Hacket, with a smile.
“If you knew what had happened to me, good sir,” interrupted the old hunter, in a low voice, “you would not persist in telling me that Hans of Iceland is here.”
Hacket again seemed embarrassed. He seized Kennybol abruptly by the arm, as if he feared lest he should approach the spot where the giant’s huge head now loomed up above those of the miners.
“My dear Kennybol,” said he, solemnly, “tell me, I entreat you, what caused your delay. You must understand that at this time anything may be of the utmost importance.”