Robert Michael Ballantyne
The Giant of the North: Pokings Round the Pole
Chapter Fifteen.
Discourses of Deep Things
The islet, or rock, for it was little more, which the explorers had reached, was low and extremely barren. Nevertheless it had on it a large colony of sea-fowl, which received the strangers with their wonted clamour of indignation—if not of welcome.
As it was near noon at the time, the Captain and Leo went with their sextants to the highest part of the island to ascertain its position; the Eskimos set about making an encampment, unloading the boats, etcetera, and Alf, with hammer and botanical box, set off on a short ramble along the coast, accompanied by Benjy and Butterface.
Sometimes these three kept together and chatted, at other times they separated a little, each attracted by some object of interest, or following the lead, it might have been, of wayward fancy. But they never lost sight of each other, and, after a couple of hours, converged, as if by tacit consent, until they met and sat down to rest on a ledge of rock.
“Well, I do like this sort o’ thing,” remarked Benjy, as he wiped his heated brow. “There is something to me so pleasant and peaceful about a low rocky shore with the sun blazing overhead and the great sea stretching out flat and white in a dead calm with just ripple enough to let you know it is all alive and hearty—only resting, like a good-humoured and sleepy giant.”
“Why, Ben, I declare you are becoming poetical,” said Alf with a smile; “your conceptions correspond with those of Buzzby, who writes:—
“‘Great Ocean, slumb’ring in majestic calm,
Lies like a mighty—a mighty—’
“I—I fear I’ve forgotten. Let me see:—
“‘Great Ocean, slumb’ring in majestic calm,
Lies like a mighty—’”
“Giant in a dwalm,” suggested Benjy.
“We’ll change the subject,” said Alf, opening his botanical box and taking out several specimens of plants and rocks. “See, here are some bits of rock of a kind that are quite new to me.”
“What’s de use ob dem?” inquired Butterface with a look of earnest simplicity.
“The use?” said Benjy, taking on himself to reply; “why, you flat-nosed grampus, don’t you know that these bits of rock are made for the express purpose of being carried home, identified, classified, labelled, stuck up in a museum, and stared at by wondering ignoramuses, who care nothing whatever about them, and know less. Geologists are constantly going about the world with their little hammers keeping up the supply.”
“Yes, Butterface,” said Alf, “Benjy is partly correct; such specimens will be treated as he describes, and be stared at in blank stupidity by hundreds of fellows like himself, but they will also be examined and understood by geologists, who from their profound knowledge of the plans which our Creator seems to have had in arranging the materials of the earth, are able to point out many interesting and useful facts which are not visible to the naked and unscientific eye, such, for instance, as the localities where coal and other precious things may be found.”
“Kin dey tell whar’ gold is to be found, massa Alf?”
“O yes, they can tell that.”
“Den it’s dis yer chile as wishes,” said Butterface with a sigh, “dat he was a jollygist.”
“Oh! Butterface, you’re a jolly goose at all events,” said Benjy; “wouldn’t it be fun to go and discover a gold mine, and dig up as much as would keep us in happy idleness all the rest of our lives? But I say, Alf, have you nothing better than geological specimens in your box—no grubological specimens, eh?”
Alf replied by producing from his box a paper parcel which contained some of the required specimens in the shape of biscuit and pemmican.
“Capital! Well, you are a good fellow, Alf. Let us make a table-cloth of the paper—now, you undisciplined black, don’t glare so at the victuals, else you’ll grow too hungry for a moderate supply.”
When the trio were in the full swing of vigorous feeding, the negro paused, with his mouth full, to ask Alf what would be the use of the North Pole when it was discovered.
“Make matches or firewood of it,” said Benjy just as he was about to stop up his impudent mouth with a lump of pemmican.
“Truly, of what use the Pole itself may be—supposing it to exist in the form of a thing,” said Alf, “I cannot tell, but it has already been of great use in creating expeditions to the Polar regions. You know well enough, Butterface, for you’ve been round the Capes of Good Hope and Horn often enough, what a long long voyage it is to the eastern seas, on the other side of the world, and what a saving of time and expense it would be if we could find a shorter route to those regions, from which so many of our necessaries and luxuries come. Now, if we could only discover an open sea in the Arctic regions which would allow our ships to sail in a straight line from England across the North Pole to Behring’s Straits, the voyage to the East would be reduced to only about 5000 miles, and we should be able to reach Japan in three or four weeks. Just think what an advantage that would be to commerce!”
“Tea at twopence a pound an’ sugar to match—not to mention molasses and baccy, you ignorant nigger!” said Benjy;—“pass the biscuits.”
“An’ now, massa Alf,” said Butterface with an eager look, “we’s diskivered dis open sea—eh!”
“Well, it seems as if we had.”
“But what good will it do us,” argued Benjy, becoming more earnest in the discussion, “if it’s all surrounded by a ring of ice such as we have passed over on sledges.”
“If,” repeated Alf, “in that ‘if’ lies the whole question. No doubt Enterprise has fought heroically for centuries to overleap this supposed ring of ice, and science has stood expectant on the edge, looking eagerly for the day when human perseverance shall reveal the secrets of the Far North. It is true, also, that we at last appear to have penetrated into the great unknown, but who shall say that the so-called ice-ring has been fully examined? Our explorations have been hitherto confined to one or two parts of it. We may yet find an ever-open entrance to this open Polar sea, and our ships may yet be seen sailing regularly to and fro over the North Pole.”
“Just so,” said Benjy, “a North Pole steam line once a month to Japan and back—first class accommodation for second class fares. Walrus and white bear parties dropped on the way at the Pole Star Hotel, an easy trip from the Pole itself, which may be made in Eskimo cabs in summer and reindeer sleighs in winter. Return tickets available for six months—touching at China, India, Nova Zembla, Kamtschatka, and Iceland. Splendid view of Hecla and the great Mer de Glace of Greenland—fogs permitting.—Don’t eat so much, Butterface, else bu’stin’ will surely be your doom.”
“Your picture is perhaps a little overdrawn, Ben,” rejoined Alf with a smile.
“So would the ancients have said,” retorted Benjy, “if you had prophesied that in the nineteenth century our steamers would pass through the Straits of Hercules, up the Mediterranean, and over the land to India; or that our cousins’ steam cars would go rattling across the great prairies of America, through the vast forests, over and under the Rocky Mountains from the States to California, in seven days; or that the telephone or electric light should ever come into being.”
“Well, you see, Butterface,” said Alf, “there is a great deal to be said in favour of Arctic exploration, even at the present day, and despite all the rebuffs that we have received. Sir Edward Sabine, one of the greatest Arctic authorities, says of the route from the Atlantic to the Pacific, that it is the greatest geographical achievement which can be attempted, and that it will be the crowning enterprise of those Arctic researches in which England has hitherto had the pre-eminence. Why, Butterface,” continued Alf, warming with his subject, while the enthusiastic negro listened as it were with every feature of his expressive face, and even the volatile Benjy became attentive, “why, there is no telling what might be the advantages that would arise from systematic exploration of these unknown regions, which cover a space of not less than two million, five hundred thousand square miles. It would advance the science of hydrography, and help to solve some of the difficult problems connected with Equatorial and Polar currents. It would enable us, it is said, by a series of pendulum observations at or near the Pole, to render essential service to the science of geology, to form a mathematical theory of the physical condition of the earth, and to ascertain its exact conformation. It would probably throw light on the wonderful phenomena of magnetism and atmospheric electricity and the mysterious Aurora Borealis—to say nothing of the flora of these regions and the animal life on the land and in the sea.”
“Why, Alf,” exclaimed Benjy in surprise, “I had no idea you were so deeply learned on these subjects.”
“Deeply learned!” echoed Alf with a laugh, “why, I have only a smattering of them. Just knowledge enough to enable me in some small degree to appreciate the vast amount of knowledge which I have yet to acquire. Why do you look perplexed, Butterface?”
“’Cause, massa, you’s too deep for me altogidder. My brain no big ’nough to hold it all.”
“And your skull’s too thick to let it through to the little blob of brain that you do possess,” said Benjy with a kindly-contemptuous look at his sable friend. “Oh! flatnose, you’re a terrible thick-head.”
“You’s right dere, massa,” replied the negro, with a gratified smile at what he deemed a compliment. “You should ha’ seed me dat time when I was leetle boy down in Ole Virginny, whar dey riz me, when my gran’moder she foun’ me stickin’ my fist in de molasses-jar an’ lickin’ it off. She swarmed at me an’ fetch me one kick, she did, an’ sent me slap troo a pannel ob de loft door, an’ tumbled me down de back stair, whar I felled over de edge an’ landed on de top ob a tar barrel w’ich my head run into. I got on my legs, I did, wiv difficulty, an’ runned away never a bit de worse—not even a headache—only it was tree months afore I got dat tar rightly out o’ my wool. Yes, my head’s t’ick ’nough.”
While Butterface was speaking, Leo and the Captain were seen approaching, and the three rose to meet them. There was a grave solemnity in the Captain’s look which alarmed them.
“Nothing wrong I hope, uncle?” said Alf.
“Wrong! no, lad, there’s nothing wrong. On the contrary, everything is right. Why, where do you think we have got to?”
“A hundred and fifty miles from the Pole,” said Alf.
“Less, less,” said Leo, with an excited look.
“We are not more,” said the Captain slowly, as he took off his hat and wiped his brow, “not more than a hundred and forty miles from it.”
“Then we could be there in three days or sooner, with a good breeze,” cried Benjy, whose enthusiasm was aroused.
“Ay, Ben, if there was nothing in the way; but it’s quite clear from what Chingatok says, that we are drawing near to his native land, which cannot be more than fifty miles distant, if so much. You remember he has told us his home is one of a group of islands, some of which are large and some small; some mountainous and others flat and swampy, affording food and shelter to myriads of wild-fowl; so, you see, after we get there our progress northward through such a country, without roads or vehicles, won’t be at the rate of ten miles an hour by any means.”
“Besides,” added Leo, “it would not be polite to Chingatok’s countrymen if we were to leave them immediately after arriving. Perhaps they would not let us go, so I fear that we shan’t gain the end of our journey yet a while, but that does not matter much, for we’re sure to make it out at last.”
“What makes the matter more uncertain,” resumed the Captain, as they sauntered back to camp, “is the fact that this northern archipelago is peopled by different tribes of Eskimos, some of whom are of a warlike spirit and frequently give the others trouble. However, Chingatok says we shall have no difficulty in reaching this Nothing—as he will insist on styling the Pole, ever since I explained to him that it was not a real but an imaginary point.”
“I wonder how Anders ever got him to understand what an imaginary point is,” said Benjy.
“That has puzzled me too,” returned the Captain, “but he did get it screwed into him somehow, and the result is—Nothing!”
“Out of nothing nothing comes,” remarked Leo, as the giant suddenly appeared from behind a rock, “but assuredly nothing can beat Chingatok in size or magnificence, which is more than anything else can.”
The Eskimo had been searching for the absentees to announce that dinner was ready, and that Toolooha was impatient to begin; they all therefore quickened their pace, and soon after came within scent of the savoury mess which had been prepared for them by the giant’s squat but amiable mother.
Chapter Sixteen.
Arrival in Poloeland
Fortune, which had hitherto proved favourable to our brave explorers, did not desert them at the eleventh hour.
Soon after their arrival at Refuge Island a fair wind sprang up from the south, and when the Charity had been carefully patched and repaired, the kites were sent up and the voyage was continued. That day and night they spent again upon the boundless sea, for the island was soon left out of sight behind them, though the wind was not very fresh.
Towards morning it fell calm altogether, obliging them to haul down the kites and take to the oars.
“It can’t be far off now, Chingatok,” said the Captain, who became rather impatient as the end drew near.
“Not far,” was the brief reply.
“Land ho!” shouted Benjy, about half-an-hour after that.
But Benjy was forced to admit that anxiety had caused him to take an iceberg on the horizon for land.
“Well, anyhow you must admit,” said Benjy, on approaching the berg, “that it’s big enough for a fellow to mistake it for a mountain. I wonder what it’s doing here without any brothers or sisters to keep it company.”
“Under-currents brought it here, lad,” said the Captain. “You see, such a monster as that must go very deep down, and the warm under-current has not yet melted away enough of his base to permit the surface-current to carry him south like the smaller members of his family. He is still travelling north, but that won’t last long. He’ll soon become small enough to put about and go the other way. I never saw a bigger fellow than that, Benjy. Hayes, the American, mentions one which he measured, about 315 feet high, and nearly a mile long. It had been grounded for two years. He calculated that there must have been seven times as much of it below water as there was above, so that it was stranded in nearly half-a-mile depth of water. This berg cannot be far short of that one in size.”
“Hm! probably then his little brothers and sisters are being now crushed to bits in Baffin’s Bay,” said Benjy.
“Not unlikely, Ben, if they’ve not already been melted in the Atlantic, which will be this one’s fate at last—sooner or later.”
From a pool on this berg they obtained a supply of pure fresh water.
When our explorers did at last sight the land it came upon them unexpectedly, in the form of an island so low that they were quite close before observing it. The number of gulls hovering above it might have suggested its presence, but as these birds frequently hover in large flocks over shoals of small fish, little attention was paid to them.
“Is this your native land, Chingatok?” asked the Captain, quickly.
“No, it is over there,” said the Eskimo, pointing to the distant horizon; “this is the first of the islands.”
As they gazed they perceived a mountain-shaped cloud so faint and far away that it had almost escaped observation. Advancing slowly, this cloud was seen to take definite form and colour.
“I knew it was!” said Benjy, “but was afraid of making another mistake.”
Had the boy or his father looked attentively at the giant just then, they would have seen that his colour deepened, his eyes glittered, and his great chest heaved a little more than was its wont, as he looked over his shoulder while labouring at the oars. Perhaps we should have said played with the oars, for they were mere toys in his grasp. Chingatok’s little mother also was evidently affected by the sight of home. But the Captain and his son saw it not—they were too much occupied with their own thoughts and feelings. To the Englishmen the sight of land roused only one great all-engrossing thought—the North Pole! which, despite the absurdity of the idea, would present itself in the form of an upright post of terrific magnitude—a worthy axle-tree, as it were, for the world to revolve upon. To the big Eskimo land presented itself in the form of a palatial stone edifice measuring fifteen feet by twelve, with a dear pretty little wife choking herself in the smoke of a cooking-lamp, and a darling little boy choking himself with a mass of walrus blubber. Thus the same object, when presented to different minds, suggested ideas that were:
“Diverse as calm from thunder,
Wide as the poles asunder.”
It was midnight when the boats drew near to land. The island in which stood the giant’s humble home seemed to Captain Vane not more than eight or ten miles in extent, and rose to a moderate height—apparently about five or six hundred feet. It was picturesque in form and composed of rugged rocks, the marks on which, and the innumerable boulders everywhere, showed that at some remote period of the world’s history, it had been subjected to the influence of glacial action. No glacier was visible now, however—only, on the rocky summit lay a patch or two of the last winter’s snow-drift, which was too deep for the summer sun to melt away. From this storehouse of water gushed numerous tiny rivulets which brawled cheerily rather than noisily among the rocks, watering the rich green mosses and grasses which abounded in patches everywhere, and giving life to countless wild-flowers and berries which decked and enriched the land.
Just off the island—which by a strange coincidence the inhabitants had named Poloe—there were hundreds of other islets of every shape and size, but nearly all of them low, and many flat and swampy—the breeding-grounds of myriads of waterfowl. There were lakelets in many of these isles, in the midst of which were still more diminutive islets, whose moss-covered rocks and fringing sedges were reflected in the crystal water. Under a cliff on the main island stood the Eskimo village, a collection of stone huts, bathed in the slanting light of the midnight sun.
But no sound issued from these huts or from the neighbouring islands. It was the period of rest for man and bird. Air, earth, and water were locked in profound silence and repose.
“We’ve got to Paradise at last, father,” was the first sound that broke the silence, if we except the gentle dip of the oars and the rippling water on the bow.
“Looks like it, Benjy,” replied the Captain.
A wakeful dog on shore was the first to scent the coming strangers. He gave vent to a low growl. It was the keynote to the canine choir, which immediately sent up a howl of discord. Forthwith from every hut there leaped armed men, anxious women, and terrified children, which latter rushed towards the cliffs or took refuge among the rocks.
“Hallo! Chingatok, your relations are not to be taken by surprise,” said the Captain—or something to that effect—in Eskimo.
The giant shook his head somewhat gravely.
“They must be at war,” he said.
“At war! whom with?”
“With the Neerdoowulls,” replied Chingatok with a frown. “They are always giving us trouble.”
“Not badly named, father,” said Benjy; “one would almost think they must be of Scotch extraction.”
At that moment the natives—who had been gesticulating wildly and brandishing spears and bone knives with expressions of fury that denoted a strong desire on their part to carve out the hearts and transfix the livers of the newcomers—suddenly gave vent to a shout of surprise, which was succeeded by a scream of joy. Chingatok had stood up in the boat and been recognised. The giant’s dog—an appropriately large one—had been the first to observe him, and expressed its feelings by wagging its tail to such an extent that its hind legs had difficulty in keeping the ground.
Immediately on landing, the party was surrounded by a clamorous crew, who, to do them justice, took very little notice of the strangers, so overjoyed were they at the return of their big countryman.
Soon a little pleasant though flattish-faced woman pushed through the crowd and seized the giant. This was his wife Pingasuk, or Pretty One. She was petite—not much larger than Oblooria the timid. The better to get at her, Chingatok went down on his knees, seized her by the shoulders, and rubbed her nose against his so vigorously that the smaller nose bid fair to come off altogether. He had to stoop still lower when a stout urchin of about five years of age came up behind him and tried to reach his face.
“Meltik!” exclaimed the giant, rubbing noses gently for fear of damaging him, “you are stout and fat, my son, you have been eating much blubber—good.”
At that moment Chingatok’s eyes fell on an object which had hitherto escaped his observation. It was a little round yellow head in his wife’s hood, with a pair of small black eyes which stared at him in blank surprise. He made a snatch at it and drew forth—a naked baby!
“Our girlie,” said the wife, with a pleased but anxious look; “don’t squeeze. She is very young and tender—like a baby seal.”
The glad father tried to fold the creature to his bosom; nearly dropped it in his excess of tender caution; thrust it hastily back into his wife’s hood, and rose to give a respectful greeting to an aged man with a scrubby white beard, who came forward at the moment.
“Who are these, my son?” asked the old man, pointing to the Englishmen, who, standing in a group with amused expressions, watched the meeting above described.
“These are the Kablunets, father. I met them, as I expected, in the far-off land. The poor creatures were wandering about in a great kayak, which they have lost, searching for nothing!”
“Searching for nothing! my son, that cannot be. It is not possible to search for nothing—at least it is not possible to find it.”
“But that is what they come here for,” persisted Chingatok; “they call it the Nort Pole.”
“And what is the Nort Pole, my son?”
“It is nothing, father.”
The old man looked at his stately son with something of anxiety mingled with his surprise.
“Has Chingatok become a fool, like the Kablunets, since he left home?” he asked in a low voice.
“Chingatok is not sure,” replied the giant, gravely. “He has seen so much to puzzle him since he went away, that he sometimes feels foolish.”
The old Eskimo looked steadily at his son for a few moments, and shook his head.
“I will speak to these men—these foolish men,” he said. “Do they understand our language?”
“Some of them understand and speak a little, father, but they have with them one named Unders, who interprets. Come here, Unders.”
Anders promptly stepped to the front and interpreted, while the old Eskimo put Captain Vane through an examination of uncommon length and severity. At the close of it he shook his head with profound gravity, and turned again to his son.
“You have indeed brought to us a set of fools, Chingatok. Your voyage to the far-off lands has not been very successful. These men want something that they do not understand; that they could not see if it was before them; that they cannot describe when they talk about it, and that they could not lay hold of if they had it.”
“Yes, father,” sighed Chingatok, “it is as I told you—nothing; only the Nort Pole—a mere name.”
A new light seemed to break in on Chingatok as he said this, for he added quickly, “But, father, a name is something—my name, Chingatok, is something, yet it is nothing. You cannot see it, you do not lay hold of it, yet it is there.”
“Toohoo! my son, that is so, no doubt, but your name describes you, and you are something. No one ever goes to a far-off land to search for a name. If this Nort Pole is only a name and not a thing, how can it be?” exclaimed the old man, turning on his heel and marching off in a paroxysm of metaphysical disgust.
He appeared to change his mind, however, for, turning abruptly back, he said to Anders, “Tell these strangers that I am glad to see them; that a house and food shall be given to them, and that they are welcome to Poloe. Perhaps their land—the far-off land—is a poor one; they may not have enough to eat. If so, they may stay in this rich land of mine to hunt and fish as long as they please. But tell them that the Eskimos love wise men, and do not care for foolishness. They must not talk any more about this search after nothing—this Nort Pole—this nonsense—huk!”
Having delivered himself of these sentiments with much dignity, the old man again turned on his heel with a regal wave of the hand, and marched up to his hut.
“That must be the King of Poloe,” whispered Captain Vane to Leo, endeavouring to suppress a smile at the concluding caution, as they followed Anders and one of the natives to the hut set apart for them.
The Captain was only half right. Amalatok was indeed the chief of the island, but the respect and deference shown to him by the tribe were owing more to the man’s age and personal worth, than to his rank. He had succeeded his father as chief of the tribe, and, during a long life, had led his people in council, at the hunt, and in war, with consummate ability and success. Although old, he still held the reins of power, chiefly because his eldest son and rightful successor—Chingatok’s elder brother—was a weak-minded man of little capacity and somewhat malignant disposition. If our giant had been his eldest, he would have resigned cheerfully long ago. As it was, he did not see his way to change the customs of the land, though he could not tell when, or by whom, or under what circumstances, the order of succession had been established. Probably, like many other antiquated customs, it had been originally the result of despotism on the part of men in power, and of stupid acquiescence on the part of an unthinking people.
On reaching his hut the old chief sat down, and, leaning carelessly against the wall, he toyed with a bit of walrus rib, as an Englishman might with a pair of nut-crackers at dessert.
“Why did you bring these barbarians here?”
“I did not bring them, father, they brought me,” said the son with a deprecating glance.
“Huk!” exclaimed the chief, after which he added, “hum!”
It was evident that he had received new light, and was meditating thereon.
“My son,” continued Amalatok, “these Kablunets seem to be stout-bodied fellows; can they fight—are they brave?”
“They are brave, father, very brave. Even the little one, whom they call Bunjay, is brave—also, he is funny. I have never seen the Kablunets fight with men, but they fight well with the bear and the walrus and the ice. They are not such fools as you seem to think. True, about this nothing—this Nort Pole—they are quite mad, but in other matters they are very wise and knowing, as you shall see before long.”
“Good, good,” remarked the old chief, flinging the walrus rib at an intrusive dog with signal success, “I am glad to hear you say that, because I may want their help.”
Amalatok showed one symptom of true greatness—a readiness to divest himself of prejudice.
“For what do you require their help, father?” asked Chingatok.
Instead of answering, the old chief wrenched off another walrus rib from its native backbone, and began to gnaw it growlingly, as if it were his enemy and he a dog.
“My father is disturbed in his mind,” said the giant in a sympathising tone.
Even a less observant man than Chingatok might have seen that the old chief was not only disturbed in mind, but also in body, for his features twitched convulsively, and his face grew red as he thought of his wrongs.
“Listen,” said Amalatok, flinging the rib at another intrusive dog, again with success, and laying his hand impressively on his son’s arm. “My enemy, Grabantak—that bellowing walrus, that sly seal, that empty-skulled puffin, that porpoise, cormorant, narwhal—s–s–sus!”
The old man set his teeth and hissed.
“Well, my father?”
“It is not well, my son. It is all ill. That marrowless bear is stirring up his people, and there is no doubt that we shall soon be again engaged in a bloody—a useless war.”
“What is it all about, father?”
“About!—about nothing.”
“Huk! about Nort Pole—nothing,” murmured Chingatok—his thoughts diverted by the word.
“No, it is worse than Nort Pole, worse than nothing,” returned the chief sternly; “it is a small island—very small—so small that a seal would not have it for a breathing-place. Nothing on it; no moss, no grass. Birds won’t stay there—only fly over it and wink with contempt. Yet Grabantak says he must have it—it is within the bounds of his land!”
“Well, let him have it, if it be so worthless,” said Chingatok, mildly.
“Let him have it!” shouted the chief, starting up with such violence as to overturn the cooking-lamp—to which he paid no regard whatever—and striding about the small hut savagely, “no, never! I will fight him to the last gasp; kill all his men; slay his women; drown his children; level his huts; burn up his meat—”
Amalatok paused and glared, apparently uncertain about the propriety of wasting good meat. The pause gave his wrath time to cool.
“At all events,” he continued, sitting down again and wrenching off another rib, “we must call a council and have a talk, for we may expect him soon. When you arrived we took you for our enemies.”
“And you were ready for us,” said Chingatok, with an approving smile.
“Huk!” returned the chief with a responsive nod. “Go, Chingatok, call a council of my braves for to—night, and see that these miserable starving Kablunets have enough of blubber wherewith to stuff themselves.”
Our giant did not deem it worth while to explain to his rather petulant father that the Englishmen were the reverse of starving, but he felt the importance of raising them in the old chief’s opinion without delay, and took measures accordingly.
