“Here, take this!”
“How heavy!” exclaimed Marian. And a moment later, upon receiving the second object, “How cold!”
“The first,” said Lucile, “is a flat, native seal-oil lamp. We can burn our seal-oil in it. I have a handful of moss in my pocket to string along the side for wick. It’ll make it more cheery and it’ll seem warmer. The other,” she went on, “is a frozen whitefish; found it on one of the caches. Guess the natives won’t miss it if they come back.”
“If they do. But where are they?” asked Marian in a puzzled tone of voice.
“Dead, perhaps. Let’s eat,” she added abruptly, as Marian shivered.
“But, Lucile, we can’t cook the fish.”
“Don’t have to. Frozen fish is good raw if it’s frozen hard enough. I’ve tried it before. You just shave it off thin like chipped dried beef and gulp it right down before it tastes too fishy.”
Marian did not think she would like it, but she found it not half bad.
When they had dined, and had sat by the yellow glow of their seal-oil lamp for a time, they took a good long look at the moon as it shone out over the shimmering whiteness of the sea.
“That,” said Marian impressively, “is the same moon that is shining on all our friends wherever they are tonight.”
The thought gave them a deal of comfort.
When, in time, their sleeping-bag was spread out on the floor, and they had snuggled comfortably down into its soft depths and were ready to go off into the land of dreams, with their seal-oil lamp still flickering in one corner, Marian said with a laugh: “Snug as two little Red Riding Hoods.”
“Yes, but if the big bear comes home?” murmured Lucile.
“He won’t,” said Marian with conviction. But the next moment her faith was shattered. There came a sound from without, and the next instant some heavy object banged against the door.
“What was that?” both exclaimed at once in hoarse whispers.
CHAPTER XVI
A FORTUNATE DISCOVERY
As Phi and his dog reached the top of the cliff and were about to step upon the uneven, snow-covered tableland which lay before them, the boy’s eyes chanced to light upon a strange looking brown mass which lay on the rock beneath the shelter of a projecting ledge.
“What do you suppose that is?” he said to the dog, at the same time stepping aside to examine it. “It’s a net,” he commented. “Too fine for a fish net—must be a bird net. That’d be good luck for us if it were summer. Place must be alive with birds then from the looks of all the deserted nests, but now—now you’re no good to us.” He kicked the net contemptuously. “Tell us one thing though,” he confided to Rover; “there are people on this island, or at least have been. Natives of some kind, they must be, for no white man would have the patience to make a net of sealskin as fine as that. Question is, were they just camping here to gather eggs or do they live here? If they live here, what kind of people are they? Well, anyway, let’s go see.”
Wearily he dragged his tired limbs up a gentle slope. Wearily the old dog followed on.
But as they reached the crest the dog became suddenly alert. His ears cocked up, his legs stiff, he sniffed the air.
“What’s that, old fellow? Birds? You’ve a bit of bird dog blood in you. Lots of leaders have, but I guess you’re mistaken. Not birds this late in the year.”
He moved forward a few feet, then his mouth flew open, but no sound came out. Had he seen a white streak flit across the snow? He had. There was another and another.
Slowly he backed away. Followed reluctantly by the dog, he retreated to the rocky shelf where lay the net.
“We may be able to use you yet,” he remarked as he picked up an end of the net. “If you’re not too rotten, you’ll serve us a good turn. There are ptarmigan out there. Don’t know how many, but enough if we catch them. Ptarmigan are good too,” he smiled at the dog, “good as quail and about as plump. Boy, Oh, boy! won’t we feast though if only we can catch them? But,” he sobered suddenly, “how I’m going to drop both ends of this net at just the right moment is more than I can tell.”
The net proved to be in serviceable condition. It was some ten yards by three wide and was of a finely woven mesh. Two ten-foot poles lay farther back under the ledge. One of these was quickly attached to an end of the net, then the net wound upon it. The second stake was fastened to the remaining loose end.
Carrying the net to a level stretch at the top of a ridge, he unrolled it, then for a full five minutes stood studying it. At last he turned thoughtfully to the right and strolled along the net. Suddenly something caught his foot and he sprawled upon the ground.
Rising, he looked at the thing that had tripped him. Then a light of joy spread over his face.
“Creeping willows!” he exclaimed. “The very thing!”
He spent the next three minutes pulling at long strands of creeping willows. When he had found two long, strong ones, he left them still fast to earth at one end and went for his net. One pole he set on end and proceeded to fasten it there by the aid of the creeping willows, guying it to right and left, as a flag-pole is often braced. He then ran out the length of his net and, having pulled it tight, with the other pole perpendicular, he gave this pole a sudden pull and twist, then threw it to the ground. The net went flat.
“Capital!” he cried. “That will do it.”
Having reset his net he took a long, circular route; he came up at last a hundred yards from his fence-like net. The dog had followed meekly at his heels, but now, seeming to sense what was needed, he began rocking back and forth, first to the right, then to the left. Now and then a white spot rose a foot or two above the snow to soar forward. The boy’s eyes snapped. Here was sport that meant life to him and to his dog if they won.
Now they neared the net. His heart beat fast. Suppose the birds should rise and soar away? Then all this work would be lost. But they still ran or fluttered forward.
“Must be eight or ten of them,” was his mental comment.
Now they were nearing the net. Veering swiftly to one side, the boy raced to the reclining pole. Lifting it lightly he drew the net to position. So white were the birds that he could scarcely distinguish them from the snow. But, suddenly, he caught a faint shock. A bird in low flight had struck the net. With wildly beating heart, he threw the net to the snow, then went racing down its length.
“One,” he exclaimed, fairly beside himself, “two, three, four.” Each time he named the count he had drawn a bird from the meshes. At last he was to the end and sank down exhausted. The dog was at his side.
“Rover, old top,” he murmured, “four of em; four beauties! We eat, old top! We eat!”
The dog’s eyes rolled hungrily, but he did not offer to touch the birds.
With eager, trembling fingers the boy tore the feathers from two of the birds, then tossed to the dog the wings, legs and back, reserving for himself the dark, rich meat of the breasts, a food fit for a king’s table. He cut this off in thin strips and spread it upon a hard-packed bank of snow. The thermometer must stand at ten below. The thin strips would soon be frozen solid. They would then be almost as palatable as if they had been cooked.
With a meal in sight, he found his mind becoming more composed. His thoughts wandered back to the question of the nature of the land he had discovered.
Little knowing what lay just before him, he munched the frozen strips of flesh; then, strengthened and enheartened, he began making plans for a night on the newly discovered land.
A freezing wind swept across the plateau. He must find shelter from this if he was to secure the sleep his tired form demanded. After a search, he found a rocky crevice which, by the aid of some squares of snow cut from a near-by bank, he converted into a three-sided house, with the open side away from the wind. From the sheltered sides of the great rocks that lay tumbled about here and there, he gathered moss by the armful and carrying it to his house, made a thick soft bed for himself and the dog.
He had no matches, but this did not trouble him. Cutting off a foot of a pole used with the net, he split it in two pieces. One of these halves he split again and from these smaller pieces he formed the bow and drill of an Eskimo bow-drill. With a tough creeping willow runner for a string to his bow, with dry moss for tinder, he soon had, first a smoke, then a blaze. Not long after this, he was turning a carefully picked and cleaned fowl over a cheerful flame.
Having broiled this to a turn, he shared it with the dog, then lay down to sleep. Before the sweet oblivion of sleep quieted his aching muscles, the old haunting questions came back to him, “What land? What people?” There were but two questions now; the third had been temporarily solved; they still had a bird for breakfast, and that there were others to be caught he did not doubt.
CHAPTER XVII
OUT OF THE NIGHT
After Marian and Lucile had heard the crash against the door of the boarded-up house, and had stilled their wildly beating hearts, they dragged themselves halfway out of their sleeping-bags and sat up.
“What was it?” Marian repeated. Her teeth were chattering so she could hardly whisper.
“It saw the light from the seal-oil lamp,” Lucile whispered. A cold chill ran up her back. “Sh! Listen!”
It was a tense moment. A dead silence hovered over the room. Had they heard a sound as of low moaning or whining, or was it the wind?
“Marian,” whispered Lucile, “what sort of a sound does a polar bear make?”
“I don’t know,” Marian shivered.
“Whatever it is, we’re not going to open that door.”
“I—I don’t know.” The moan came distinctly now, and a scratching sound. “Perhaps we ought. Perhaps—perhaps it is some one in trouble.”
Lucile was silent; she had not thought of that.
For five minutes they sat there listening. Not a word passed between them. Now and again there came that awful, low moan and the scratching. Save for the dismal wail of the wind that had arisen and was singing about the corners of the house there was no other sound. The seal-oil lamp in the corner flickered constantly, sending a weird yellow light dancing from floor to ceiling.
“Lucile,” said Marian at last, “I can’t stand it any longer. If it’s someone in distress, they’ll surely freeze, and then we could never forgive ourselves. The chain will let the door open a crack. If it’s a bear, or a wolf, or a wild dog, he can’t break the chain. If it’s someone, whoever he is, even if he’s drunk, we ought to help him.”
Lucile shivered, but she arose and, fumbling about, found the butcher knife.
“I’ll stand by with the knife.” She followed Marian, as they tiptoed toward the door.
The moon was shining brightly through the window. Whatever was at the door, they would be able to see it once the door was open a crack.
“Now! Ready!” whispered Marian, as she grasped the doorknob and turned it.
With a wildly beating heart Lucile waited at her side.
But the door did not open. “It’s stuck,” whispered Marian. “I—I guess you’ll have to help me.”
Reluctantly laying down the knife, Lucile put both hands over Marian’s and exerted all her strength in a pull.
The next instant the door gave way, but instead of being permanently held by the chain, it was only momentarily checked by it, then flew wide open, sending both girls crashing to the floor. The rusty staple had broken.
Too frightened to breathe they scrambled to their feet. Lucile fumbled about for the knife. Marian seized the door to close it. Then in one breath they exclaimed, “Why, it’s only an Eskimo boy!”
It was true. Before them on the snow, peering white-faced at them, was a native boy, probably not over ten years old.
He dragged himself to a sitting position, then attempted to rise. At this he failed, and fell over again.
“He must be injured,” said Marian.
“Or starved,” answered Lucile.
It was plain that the boy was at this time quite as much frightened as had been the girls a moment before.
“We must get him inside and find out if he is hurt,” said Lucile, bending over and grasping the boy by the shoulder. As she did this he uttered a low moan of fear and shrank back.
Disregarding this, the two girls lifted him gently, and, carrying him inside, set him on their sleeping-bag with the wall of the room as a prop to his back.
“I believe his foot’s hurt,” said Lucile suddenly. “See how his skin-boot is torn!”
To cut away the boot, which was stiff and frozen, was a delicate task. When this and the deerskin sock had been removed, they saw that the foot had indeed been badly crushed. The deerskin sock had prevented it from freezing.
By carefully pressing and working it this way and that, Lucile determined that there were probably no bones broken. It, however, was swelling rapidly.
“We must bandage it at once,” said Lucile.
“With what?”
Lucile’s answer was to tear a six-inch strip from the bottom of her underskirt. The wound was then tightly and skillfully bandaged.
“Next thing’s something to eat,” said Lucile, rising. “You stay here and I’ll see what I can find to cook something in.”
She soon returned with a huge brass teakettle of the Russian type. Into this she put snow, and hung it over the seal-oil lamp. Soon a bit of fish was boiling.
“Better warm stuff at first,” she explained, “He must be nearly frozen.”
All this time the boy, with his look of fear gone, sat staring at them, his big brown eyes full of wonder.
“I’d like to know where he came from and how it is that he’s alone,” said Marian.
“So would I,” said Lucile. “Well, anyway, we’ll have to do the best we can for him. You know what it says somewhere about ‘entertaining angels.’”
“Yes, and that reminds me. He must have a place to sleep. I’ll go see what I can find.”
She returned presently with an arm-load of deerskins.
“There’s everything out there,” she smiled, nodding toward the native village; “just as if they were gone overnight and would be back in the morning.”
“I wonder,” said Marian, with a little thrill, “if they will.”
An hour later, with a pole propped solidly against the door, with the boy slumbering soundly in the opposite corner, and the seal-oil lamp flickering low, the girls once more gave themselves over to sleep.
When they awoke, they found the cabin encircled by a howling whirlwind of snow, one of those wild storms that come up so suddenly in Arctic seas and as suddenly subside.
The frozen fish, which was a large one, sufficed for both breakfast and dinner for the three of them. The boy, a bright little fellow, with the ruddy brown cheeks of an Italian peasant boy, but with the slight squint of eyes and flatness of nose peculiar to these natives of the North, watched every move they made with great interest.
They tried from time to time, to talk to him, but he did not, apparently, know a word of English, and even to the few words of Eskimo they knew he gave no response.
“Oh, Lucile!” Marian exclaimed at last. “Are we in Russia or America? Who is this boy? Where are his people?”
Lucile did not reply. She was too deeply perplexed for words. But the boy, seeming to have caught something of the purport of Marian’s words, tore a splinter from the board wall of the cabin, and, having held it in the blaze of the seal-oil lamp until it was charred, began to draw on the floor.
First he drew a large circle, then a small one. Next, on the large circle he drew lines to represent men, as c
hildren often do, a straight line for the back and one each for an arm and a leg, with a circle for a head. When he had drawn many of these, he drew a square within the smaller circle, and within the square drew two characters to represent persons. He next drew, between the two circles, many irregular figures. In the midst of this mass of irregular figures he drew a character for a person.
He made a motion with his hand to indicate that the irregular figures between the circles were in motion. Next he made a motion with his charcoal pencil to indicate that the lone person was moving across the irregular figures between the circles. This motion was halting, as if the person, many times, stumbled and fell. The course of the charcoal at last reached the edge of the square, and there it drew the reclining figure of a person.
Lucile had watched every move intently.
“Do you see what he is telling us?” she cried excitedly. “It is the old native way of telling stories by drawings. He has said, by the two circles, that there are two islands, one large, one small. On the large one are many people—his people—on the small one, a house—the house we are in. Between the two islands there is floeing ice. A figure is attempting to cross the ice. He is that one. He falls many times, but at last reaches the island and this house.”
“And,” said Marian, “probably the people, many of them, live on this island. They were probably over there when the ice came. They did not dare to attempt to cross. When the floe is steady and solid, as it will be after this storm, then they will cross. And then—” she paused.
“Yes, and then?” said Lucile, huskily.
With the setting of the sun, the wind fell. The snow-fog drifted away and the moon came out. Lucile crept out of the cabin and went in search of some new form of food. She found the spare-ribs of a seal hanging over a pole on one of the caches. It seemed fairly fresh, and when a piece was set simmering over the seal-oil lamp it gave forth an appetizing odor.
The two girls stood by the window as the food cooked. They were looking out over the sea, which was now a solid mass of ice.
“I almost believe I can catch the faint outline of that other island,” said Lucile.
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