He knew what they were expecting of him, for they were children, all of them.  Even Tautuk and Amuk Toolik, his chief herdsmen, were children.  Nawadlook and Keok were children.  Strong and loyal and ready to die for him in any fight or stress, they were still children.  He gave Stampede his rifle and hastened on, determined to keep his eyes from questing for Mary Standish in these first minutes of his return.  He sounded the tundra call, and men, women, and little children came running to meet him.  The drumming of the tom-toms ceased, and the beaters leaped to their feet.  He was inundated.  There was a shrill crackling of voice, laughter, children’s squeals, a babel of delight.  He gripped hands with both his own—­hard, thick, brown hands of men; little, softer, brown hands of women; he lifted children up in his arms, slapped his palm affectionately against the men’s shoulders, and talked, talked, talked, calling each by name without a slip of memory, though there were fifty around him counting the children.  First, last, and always these were his people.  The old pride swept over him, a compelling sense of power and possession.  They loved him, crowding in about him like a great family, and he shook hands twice and three times with the same men and women, and lifted the same children from the arms of delighted mothers, and cried out greetings and familiarities with an abandon which a few minutes ago knowledge of Mary Standish’s presence would have tempered.  Then, suddenly, he saw her under the Chinese lanterns in front of his cabin.  Sokwenna, so old that he hobbled double and looked like a witch, stood beside her.  In a moment Sokwenna’s head disappeared, and there came the booming of a tom-tom.  As quickly as the crowd had gathered about him, it fell away.  The beaters squatted themselves in their semicircle again.  Fireworks began to go off.  Dancers assembled.  Rockets hissed through the air.  Roman candles popped.  From the open door of his cabin came the sound of a phonograph.  It was aimed directly at him, the one thing intended for his understanding alone.  It was playing “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.”

Mary Standish had not moved.  He saw her laughing at him, and she was alone.  She was not the Mary Standish he had known aboard ship.  Fear, the quiet pallor of her face, and the strain and repression which had seemed to be a part of her were gone.  She was aflame with life, yet it was not with voice or action that she revealed herself.  It was in her eyes, the flush of her cheeks and lips, the poise of her slim body as she waited for him.  A thought flashed upon him that for a space she had forgotten herself and the shadow which had driven her to leap into the sea.

“It is splendid!” she said when he came up to her, and her voice trembled a little.  “I didn’t guess how badly they wanted you back.  It must be a great happiness to have people think of you like that.”

“And I thank you for your part,” he replied.  “Stampede has told me.  It was quite a bit of trouble, wasn’t it, with nothing more than the hope of Americanizing a pagan to inspire you?” He nodded at the half-dozen flags over his cabin.  “They’re rather pretty.”