“When Ol’ Chief’s father die—­”

All the Pymeuts chuckled afresh.  The Boy listened eagerly.  Usually Yagorsha’s stories were tragic, or, at least, of serious interest, ranging from bereaved parents who turned into wolverines, all the way to the machinations of the Horrid Dwarf and the Cannibal Old Woman.

The Colonel looked at Nicholas.  He seemed as entertained as the rest, but quite willing to leave his family history in professional hands.

“Ol’ Chief’s father, Glovotsky, him Russian,” Yagorsha began again, laying down his sinew-thread a moment and accepting some of the Colonel’s tobacco.

“I didn’t know you had any white blood in you,” interrupted the Colonel, offering his pouch to Nicholas.  “I might have suspected Muckluck—­”

“Heap got Russian blood,” interrupted Joe.

As the Story-teller seemed to be about to repeat the enlivening tradition concerning the almost mythical youth of Ol’ Chief’s father, that subject of the great Katharine’s, whose blood was flowing still in Pymeut veins, just then in came Yagorsha’s daughter with some message to her father.  He grunted acquiescence, and she turned to go.  Joe called something after her, and she snapped back.  He jumped up to bar her exit.  She gave him a smart cuff across the eyes, which surprised him almost into the fire, and while he was recovering his equilibrium she fled.  Yagorsha and all the Pymeuts laughed delightedly at Joe’s discomfiture.

The Boy had been obliged to sit up to watch this spirited encounter.  The only notice the Colonel took of him was to set the kettle on the fire.  While he was dining his pardner gathered up the blankets and crawled out.

“Comin’ in half a minute,” the Boy called after him.  The answer was swallowed by the tunnel.

“Him go say goo’-bye Ol’ Chief,” said Nicholas, observing how the Colonel’s pardner was scalding himself in his haste to despatch a second cup of tea.

But the Boy bolted the last of his meal, gathered up the kettle, mug, and frying-pan, which had served him for plate as well, and wormed his way out as fast as he could.  There was the sled nearly packed for the journey, and watching over it, keeping the dogs at bay, was an indescribably dirty little boy in a torn and greasy denim parki over rags of reindeer-skin.  Nobody else in sight but Yagorsha’s daughter down at the water-hole.

“Where’s my pardner gone?” The child only stared, having no English apparently.

While the Boy packed the rest of the things, and made the tattered canvas fast under the lashing, Joe came out of the Kachime.  He stood studying the prospect a moment, and his dull eyes suddenly gleamed.  Anna was coming up from the river with her dripping pail.  He set off with an affectation of leisurely indifference, but he made straight for his enemy.  She seemed not to see him till he was quite near, then she sheered off sharply.  Joe hardly quickened his pace, but seemed to gain.  She set down her bucket, and turned back towards the river.