“I see.  How’s your father?”

Nicholas looked grave; even Princess Muckluck stopped laughing.

“Come,” said Nicholas, and the Boy followed him on all fours into the Kachime.

Entering on his stomach, he found himself in a room about sixteen by twenty feet, two-thirds underground, log-walls chinked with moss, a roof of poles sloping upwards, tent-like, but leaving an opening in the middle for a smoke-hole some three feet square, and covered at present by a piece of thin, translucent skin.  With the sole exception of the smoke-hole, the whole thing was so covered with earth, and capped with snow, that, expecting a mere cave, one was surprised at the wood-lining within.  The Boy was still more surprised at the concentration, there, of malignant smells.

He gasped, and was for getting out again as fast as possible, when the bearskin flap fell behind him over the Kachime end of the entrance-tunnel.

Through the tobacco-smoke and the stifling air he saw, vaguely, a grave gathering of bucks sitting, or, rather, lounging and squatting, on the outer edge of the wide sleeping-bench that ran all round the room, about a foot and a half from the hewn-log floor.

Their solemn, intent faces were lit grotesquely by the uncertain glow of two seal-oil lamps, mounted on two posts, planted one in front of the right sleeping-bench, the other on the left.

The Boy hesitated.  Was it possible he could get used to the atmosphere?  Certainly it was warm in here, though there was no fire that he could see.  Nicholas was talking away very rapidly to the half-dozen grave and reverend signiors, they punctuating his discourse with occasional grunts and a well-nigh continuous coughing.  Nicholas wound up in English.

“Me tell you:  he heap good friend.  You ketch um tobacco?” he inquired suddenly of his guest.  Fortunately, the Boy had remembered to “ketch” that essential, and his little offering was laid before the council-men.  More grunts, and room made for the visitor on the sleeping-bench next the post that supported one of the lamps, a clay saucer half-full of seal-oil, in which a burning wick of twisted moss gave forth a powerful odour, a fair amount of smoke, and a faint light.

The Boy sat down, still staring about him, taking note of the well-hewn logs, and of the neat attachment of the timbers by a saddle-joint at the four corners of the roof.

“Who built this?” he inquired of Nicholas.

“Ol’ father, an’ ... heap ol’ men gone dead.”

“Gee!  Well, whoever did it was on to his job,” he said.  “I don’t seen a nail in the whole sheebang.”

“No, no nail.”

The Boy remembered Nicholas’s sled, and, looking again at the disproportionately small hands of the men about him, corrected his first impression that they were too feminine to be good for much.

A dirty old fellow, weak and sickly in appearance, began to talk querulously.  All the others listened with respect, smoking and making inarticulate noises now and then.  When that discourse was finished, a fresh one was begun by yet another coughing councillor.