mingled with the snapping of whips and the howls and barkings of dogs.
"Bless my handkerchief!" cried Mr. Damon. "What's that?"
They all saw a moment later. Approaching over the frozen snow were several Eskimo sledges, drawn by dog teams, and the native drivers were shouting and cracking their whips of walrus hide.
"The natives are coming to attack us!" cried Ned.
Tom said nothing. He was steadily observing the approaching sleds. They came on rapidly. Abe was holding the golden nuggets in his gloved hands.
"Get the guns! Where's your electric rifle, Tom?" cried Mr. Damon.
"I don't believe we'll need the guns—just yet," answered the young inventor, slowly.
"Bless my cartridge-belt! Why not?" demanded the eccentric man.
"Because those are the Fogers," replied Tom. "They have followed us—Andy and his father!"
"Andy Foger here!" gasped Ned.
Tom nodded grimly. A few minutes later the sleds had come to a halt not far from our friends, and Andy, followed by his father, leaped off his
