After the edge of their weariness had worn off with their first heavy slumbers, the mental anxiety of the young adventurers began to return, and they slept so uneasily that when morning came they all awoke with a start at the sounds they heard outside the barabbara.

Rain and heavy wind had begun some time in the night; but now they heard something else—the swishing of feet in the wet grass and the sound of low voices.

The young Aleut was awake also, but he smiled as he sat up on the blankets.

“I don’t think we need be alarmed,” said Rob, in a low tone to his friends. “If these people had meant us any harm we’d have been foolish to go out in their boats with them and leave our guns. Now we’re here safe with all our guns and other stuff, and here’s this boy with us, too. If they had not felt friendly toward us they would never have let him stay here all night. Too bad we can’t understand their talk, and just have to guess at things; but that’s the way I guess it.”

A moment later there came the sound of a loud voice at the door. It opened, and the swarthy face of the Aleut chief peered in. He jabbered in his native language to the boy, who replied briefly and composedly. The chief now pushed his way into the hut, and, much to the annoyance of the white occupants, he was followed by a dozen other natives, who came crowding in and filling the place with the rank smell of wet fur and feathers. They seated themselves around the edge of the barabbara, and one of them presently began to make a fire.

“Dis barabbara—my peoples!” said the chief. “My families come here all light, all light, all light!”

“Just as I thought,” said Rob, aside, to the others. “It is we who are the visitors, not they. John, you act as interpreter. Ask him how far it is to Kadiak.”

The keen-witted chief caught the sound of the latter word.

“You come Kadiak?” he said. “Come dory? You no got-um schooner?”

“Schooner by-and-by,” broke in Rob, hurriedly. “Our peoples come.”

The chief sat thoughtful for a time, his cunning eyes looking from one to the other.

“What you give go Kadiak?” he asked, at length.

“Schooner come by-and-by,” retorted Rob, coldly.

The chief chuckled to himself shrewdly.

“Where bad mans go?” he asked, after awhile.

Rob shrugged his shoulder and pointed toward the mountains, as though he did not know where the refugee might be.

After awhile the old native produced from under his coat three handsomely made kamelinkas, or rain-proof coats, made of membranes. He pointed to the clothing of the boys and made signs of rain.

“You like-um?” he asked. “Me like-um lifle.”

Rob shook his head, but the old man persisted. Finally Rob was seized of a happy idea.

“S’pose you go Kadiak,” he said. “You come back with schooner, maybe so we give one rifle, two rifle.”

This had precisely the opposite effect from that intended. The chief guessed that, after all, the boys did not know when any boat would come for them. The cunning eyes of the native grew ugly now.

“My barabbara!” he said. “You go. S’pose you no give lifle! Me take-um all light, all light, all light!”

“Hold on to your guns, boys!” called Rob, quickly. “Don’t let them get hold of one of them.”

Then he resumed with the chief. “Heap shoot!” said he, patting his rifle. “You no take-um. S’pose you get-um schooner, maybe so we give one rifle, two rifle; maybe so flour—sugar; maybe so hundred dollar. Our peoples plenty rich.”

The chief seemed sulky and not disposed to argue, but the young boy at his side spoke to him rapidly for a time, and for some reason he seemed mollified. Rob pressed the advantage. Drawing a piece of worn paper from his inner coat-pocket, he made signs of writing with a stub of pencil which he found in another pocket.

“You see talk-talk paper?” he went on. “S’pose you take talk-talk paper by Kadiak, we give-um one rifle.”

The chief grinned broadly and reached out his hand to take Rob’s rifle from him, but the latter drew it back.

“No give-um rifle now,” he insisted. “When bidarka go, you take-um talk-talk paper, we give-um rifle. No! No give-um rifle now. We keep-um boy here all right, all right, all right. No keep-um boy, no give-um rifle. No get-um schooner, no get-um boy.”

This was not very good talking, but it was not bad reasoning for a boy; and, moreover, it seemed to go home. The old Aleut sat and thought for a while. Evidently he either was willing to exchange his son for so good a rifle, or else he felt sure that no harm would come to the boy. Turning to the latter, he talked with him for some moments earnestly, the boy answering without hesitation. At last the young Aleut arose, edged through the crowd, and sat down beside John, putting his hand on the arm of the latter as though to call him his friend.

Rob drew a sigh of relief. Although he no more than half understood what had gone on, he reasoned that the boy had agreed to remain with them until word was brought back from the settlement. How long that might be, or in what form help might come, he could only guess. Keeping his own counsel, and preserving as stern an expression as he could, Rob sat and looked at the Aleut chieftain steadily.

The situation was suddenly changed by a shout from the direction of the beach. Led by the chief, the natives all now hurried out of the barabbara. The young boy remained. In a few moments he crawled out and presently dragged in after him the wet bear-skins, making signs that they would be spoiled if left in the rain. Having done this, he motioned to the boys to put on the kamelinkas which had been left in the hut by the chief and then to follow him.

Guessing that there might be events of interest on the beach, they adopted his suggestions and hastened out into the rain.

When they reached the top of the sea-wall the cause of the excitement was apparent. The natives were hurrying as fast as they could go in a body up the beach. Perhaps a half-mile from where they stood they could see a vast dark shape half awash in the heavy surf. Around it bobbed a few dark spots which they saw to be bidarkas. From these, and from the natives gathered at the edge of the water, there came, as the boys could see, one harpoon after another. It was plain that the whale, sickened by its wound and buffeted by the heavy weather, had been driven close in shore, and here had been attacked and finished at short range by the natives who had been watching for its appearance.