BACK TO OLD CHICAGO
In the spring all the ice from upper Behring Sea passes through Behring
Strait. One by one, like squadrons of great ships, floes from the shores
of Cape York, Cape Nome and the Yukon flats drift majestically through
that narrow channel to the broad Arctic Ocean.
So it happened that in due time the ice floe on which the Russian had
sought refuge drifted past the Diomede Islands and farther out, well
into the Arctic Ocean, met the floe on which the Jap girl had been lost
as it circled to the east.
All ignorant of the passenger it carried, the girl welcomed this
addition to her broad domain of ice. She had lived on the floe for days,
killing seal for her food and melting snow to quench her thirst. But of
late the cakes had begun to drift apart. There was danger that the great
pan on which she had established herself would drift away from the
others, and, in that case, if no seals came, she would starve. This new
floe crowded upon hers and made the one on which she camped a solid mass
again.
Spying some strange, dark spots on the newly arrived floe, she hurried
over to the place and was surprised to find that it was a great heap of
rubbish carted from some city. Though she did not know it, she guessed
that city was Nome.
With the keen pleasure of a child she explored the heaps, selecting here
a broken knife, there a discarded kettle, and again some other utensil
which would help her in setting up a convenient kitchen.
But it was as she made her way back to her camp that she received the
greatest shock. Suddenly, as she rounded a cake of ice, she came upon a
man sprawled upon the ice, as if dead. The girl took no chances. In the
land whence she came, it was not considered possible that this man
should die. She sprang between two up-ended cakes, and from this shelter
studied him cautiously. Yes, there was no mistaking him; it was the
Russian. A slight movement of one arm told her he was not dead. Whether
he was unconscious or was sleeping she could not tell.
Presently, after tying her dagger to her waist by a rawhide cord, she
crept silently forward. An ear inclined toward his face told her that he
was breathing regularly; he was sleeping the torpid sleep of one worn by
exhaustion, exposure and starvation.
Ever so gently she touched him. He did not move. Then, with one hand on
her dagger, she felt his clothing, as if searching for some object
hidden in his fur garments. Her touch was light as a feather, yet she
appeared to have a wonderful sense of location in the tips of those
small, slender fingers.
Once the man moved and groaned. Light as a leaf she sprang away, the
dagger gleaming in her hand. There were reasons why she did not wish to
kill that man; other reasons than the fact that she was a woman and
shrank from slaying, and yet she was in a perilous position. Should it
come to a choice between killing him or suffering herself, she would
kill him.
Again the man's body relaxed in slumber. Again she glided to his side
and continued her search. When at last she straightened up, it was with
a look of despair. The thing she sought was not there.
When the Russian awoke some time later it was with the feeling that he
had been prodded in the side. The first sensation to greet him after
that was the savory smell of cooked meat. Unable to believe his senses,
he opened his eyes and sat up. Before him was a tin pan partly filled
with strips of reddish-brown meat and squares of fried fat. The dish was
still hot.
Like a dog that fears to have his food snatched from him, he glared
about him and a sort of snarl escaped his lips. Then he fell upon the
food and ate it ravenously. With the last morsel in his hand, he looked
about him for signs of the human being who had befriended him. But in
his eye was no sign of gratitude, rather the reverse--a burning fire of
suspicion and hate lurked in their sullen depths. His gaze finally
rested for a moment on the meat in his hand. Then his face blanched. The
meat had been neatly cut by an instrument keen as a razor.
* * * * *
The steam-whaler, Karluke, a whole year overdue, pushing her way south
through the ice-infested Strait, her crew half mutinous, and her food
supply low, was subjected to two vexatious delays. Once she halted to
pick up a man who signaled her from the top of a shattered tower of wood
which topped an ice pile. The man was a Russian. Again, the boat paused
to take on board a youth, whom they supposed to be a Chukche hunter who
had been carried by the floes from his native shores.
The Russian paid them well for his passage to Seattle. The supposed
Chukche was sent to the galley to become cook's helper.
This Chukche boy was no other than the Jap girl. She realized at once
the position she was in; a perilous enough one, once her identity was
disclosed, and she did all in her power to play the part of a Chukche
boy. She drew maps on the deck to show the seamen that she was a member
of the reindeer Chukche tribes, who spoke a different language from the
hunting tribes, thus explaining why she could not converse freely with
the veteran Arctic sailors who had learned Chukche on their many
voyages. She was fortunate in immediately securing a cook's linen cap.
This she wore tightly drawn down to her ears, covering her hair
completely.
One thing she discovered the first night on board: The Russian had in
his stateroom a bundle. This had been hidden when she searched him on
the ice. To have a look into that bundle became her absorbing purpose.
Three times she attempted to enter his stateroom. On the third attempt
she did actually enter the room, but so narrowly escaped having her
linen mask torn from her head and her identity revealed by the irate
Russian, that she at last gave it up.
Upon docking at Seattle both the Russian and the girl mingled with the
crowd on the dock and quickly disappeared.
The clerks in Roman & Lanford's department store were more than mildly
curious regarding an Eskimo boy, who, entering their store that day and
displaying a large roll of bills, demanded the best in women's wearing
apparel. They had in stock a complete outfit, just the size that would
fit the strange customer, who was no other than the Jap girl.
* * * * *
Johnny Thompson and Hanada, after two weeks of fruitless watching and
waiting in Nome, took a steamer for Seattle. Johnny had not been in
that city a day when, while walking toward the Washington Hotel, he felt
a light touch on his arm, and turned to look into the beaming face of
the Jap girl.
"You--you here?" he gasped in amazement.
"Yes."
"Why! You look grand," he assured her. "Regular American girl."
She blushed through her brown skin. Then her face took on a serious
look:
"The Russian--" she began.
"Yes, the Russian!" exclaimed Johnny eagerly.
"He is here--no, not here. This morning he takes train for Chicago.
To-night we will follow. We will get that man, you and I, and--Iyok-ok."
Her lips tripped over the last word.
"Hanada," Johnny corrected.
"He has told you?"
"Yes, he is an old friend."
"And mine too. Good! To-night we will go. We will get that man. Three of
us. That bad one!"
"All right," said Johnny. "See you at the depot to-night."
"Wait," said the girl. Her hand still on his arm, she stood on her
tiptoe and whispered in his ear:
"My name Cio-Cio-San; your friend, Hanada friend. Good-by." Then she was
gone.
Johnny walked to his hotel as in a dream. He had hoped to return to his
den, his job and to Mazie in Chicago, and in a quiet way, all mysteries
dissolved, to live his old happy life. But here were all the mysteries
carrying him right to his own city and promising to end--in what?
Perhaps in some tremendous sensation. Who could tell? And the diamonds;
what of them? He put his hand to his inner pocket; they were still
there. Was he watched? Would he be followed? Even as he asked himself
the question, he fancied that a dark form moved stealthily across the
street.
"Well, anyway," he said to himself, "I can't desert my Jap friends.
Besides, I don't want to."
* * * * *
"Chicago," said Hanada some time later, as Johnny related his
conversation with Cio-Cio-San. "That means the end is near."
The end was not so near as he thought. When it came it was not, alas! to
be for him the kind of end he fancied.
"All right," he said. "To-night we go to Chicago."
On the trip eastward from Seattle, Johnny slept much and talked little.
The Jap girl and Hanada occupied compartments in different cars and
appeared to wish to avoid being seen together or with Johnny. This, he
concluded, was because there might be Russian Radicals on this very
train. Johnny slept with the diamonds pressed against his chest and it
was with a distinct sense of relief that he at last heard the hollow
roar of the train as it passed over the street subways, for he knew this
meant he was back in dear old Chicago, where he might have bitter
enemies, but where also were many warm friends.