The Blue Envelope Part 25

"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 pa.s.sed 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 doork.n.o.b 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 bra.s.s 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?"