When he had puffed awhile, Nicholas took his pipe out of his mouth, and, looking at the Boy, said: 

“You no savvy catch fish in winter?”

“Through the ice?  No.  How you do it?”

“Make hole—­put down trap—­heap fish all winter.”

“You get enough to live on?” asked the Colonel.

“They must have dried fish, too, left over from the summer,” said Mac.

Nicholas agreed.  “And berries and flour.  When snow begin get soft,
Pymeuts all go off—­” He motioned with his big head towards the hills.

“What do you get there?” Mac was becoming interested.

“Caribou, moose—­”

“Any furs?”

“Yes; trap ermun, marten—­”

“Lynx, too, I suppose, and fox?”

Nicholas nodded.  “All kinds.  Wolf—­muskrat, otter—­wolverine—­all kinds.”

“You got some skins now?” asked the Nova Scotian.

“Y—­yes.  More when snow get soft.  You come Pymeut—­me show.”

“Where have ye been just now?” asked O’Flynn.

“St. Michael.”

“How long since ye left there?”

“Twelve sleeps.”

“He means thirteen days.”

Nicholas nodded.

“They couldn’t possibly walk that far in—­”

“Oh yes,” says the Boy; “they don’t follow the windings of the river, they cut across the portage, you know.”

“Snow come—­no trail—­big mountains—­all get lost.”

“What did you go to St. Michael’s for?”

“Oh, me pilot.  Me go all over.  Me leave N. A. T. and T. boat St. Michael’s last trip.”

“Then you’re in the employ of the great North American Trading and Transportation Company?”

Nicholas gave that funny little duck of the head that meant yes.

“That’s how you learnt English,” says the Colonel.

“No; me learn English at Holy Cross.  Me been baptize.”

“At that Jesuit mission up yonder?”

“Forty mile.”

“Well,” says Potts, “I guess you’ve had enough walking for one winter.”

Nicholas seemed not to follow this observation.  The Boy interpreted: 

“You heap tired, eh?  You no go any more long walk till ice go out, eh?”

Nicholas grinned.

“Me go Ikogimeut—­all Pymeut go.”

“What for?”

“Big feast.”

“Oh, the Russian mission there gives a feast?”

“No.  Big Innuit feast.”

“When?”

“Pretty quick.  Every year big feast down to Ikogimeut when Yukon ice get hard, so man go safe with dog-team.”

“Do many people go?”

“All Innuit go, plenty Ingalik go.”

“How far do they come?”

“All over; come from Koserefsky, come from Anvik—­sometime Nulato.”

“Why, Nulato’s an awful distance from Ikogimeut.”

“Three hundred and twenty miles,” said the pilot, proud of his general information, and quite ready, since he had got a pipe between his teeth, to be friendly and communicative.