“Well, I tell you what, Fred,” shouted Tom, “if father’s willing we should go, we can have a big time, and perhaps kill a bear!”
“That’s so!” said Fred, catching fire from the other’s enthusiasm. “That’ll be seeing a bit of Alaska that isn’t down on the programme, eh?”
“Is your father raound?” asked Solomon, with a meditative puff at his pipe.
“He’s gone off to look at some mines.”
“H’m—‘Silver Bow,’ I s’pose. When d’ye expect him back?”
“Before supper, he said. Where can we find you, Mr.—Mr.”—
“You c’n call me Solomon or Baranov, jest’s ye please,” said the hunter. “There ain’t no ‘mister’ to it. I’ll meet you here, or what’s better, I’ll be daown on the wharf at eight o’clock to-night. What’s your names?”
“Tom Percival and Fred Seacomb. I’ll bring my father with me.” And with mutual good-bys they parted for the afternoon.
Tom could think of nothing but the coming tramp, and dignified Fred displayed a degree of excitement which was, to say the least, unusual. The girls looked anxious when they heard the plan, but admitted that if they were boys it would be great fun.
“Of course,” remarked Tom, “you’ll be awfully lonesome without us, that day and a half. But you must bear up under it.”