. There was a
woman of middle age, and beside her a girl of about sixteen years,
evidently her daughter. Dave's eyes approved of the girl, and though she
was a stranger to his tongue, she did not fail to find an immediate means
of letting him know that she looked upon him with much favor.

All these people were dressed in skins, fawn skins for the most part,
though there were occasional garments of leather. The garments were not
cut at all after the manner of Chukches or Eskimos. The girl wore a skirt
and a loose middy-like jacket of white buckskin, the skin of which had
been split thin. The garments suited her wonderfully well.

Dave had concluded, before one of them spoke, that they were Russians.
When the oldest man of the group attempted to address him, he knew his
guess to be correct, though he understood not one word of what was being
said.

"But what," he asked himself, "are these people doing here so far within
the Arctic Circle, and how do they live?"

Having made it evident that he did not understand their language, he
awaited further attempts at conversation. Other languages were tried with
no success, until a man of thirty years or past suddenly said:

"Do you speak English?"

Dave could have wept on his shoulders for pure joy. What he did do was to
extend his hand with a hearty, "Put her there, old chap, that's just what
I do!"

"You must be hungry," said the new-found friend.

"We could eat," admitted Dave.

"Come this way."

Having made sure that the balloon was in a safe position, Dave and Jarvis,
assisting the professor, followed their host round a point of rock and up
to a row of cabins on the southern side of the hill. Having entered one of
these, they were invited to sit down while the professor was helped to a
room in the rear and tucked into bed.

"Now, gentlemen," said the stranger, "we can offer you only venison and
fresh sweet potatoes for your main course. You will perhaps not mind that.
But in the matter of salads, we can give you a little choice. Will you
have head lettuce or sliced cucumbers?" He smiled genially.

Dave looked at Jarvis; Jarvis stared at Dave. Was this man jesting? Head
lettuce and cucumbers in mid-winter, inside the Arctic Circle? What a rank
impossibility! Yet the man did not smile.

"Mine's 'ead lettuce an' a little whale blubber," laughed Jarvis.

"And yours?" smiled the host, turning to Dave.

"S-s-same," stammered Dave,

"'E's a jolly sport," sighed