“There are more cooking,” says he not over-cordially.

“The one that talks good English is the son of the chief.  You can see he’s different from the others.  Knows a frightful lot.  He’s taught me some of his language already.  The men with him said ‘Kaiomi’ to everything I asked, and that means ‘No savvy.’  Says he’ll teach me—­he’ll teach all of us—­how to snow-shoe.”

“We know how to snow-shoe.”

“Oh, I mean on those long narrow snow-shoes that make you go so fast you always trip up!  He’ll show us how to steer with a pole, and how to make fish-traps and—­and everything.”

Mac began measuring out some tea.

“He’s got a team of Esquimaux dogs—­calls ’em Mahlemeuts, and he’s got a birch-bark canoe, and a skin kyak from the coast.”  Then with an inspiration:  “His people are the sort of Royal Family down there,” added the Boy, thinking to appeal to the Britisher’s monarchical instincts.

Mac had meditatively laid his hand on a side of bacon, the Boy’s eyes following.

“He’s asked us—­all of us, and we’re five—­up to visit him at Pymeut, the first village above us here.”  Mac took up a knife to cut the bacon.  “And—­good gracious! why, I forgot the grouse; they can have the grouse!”

“No, they can’t,” said Mac firmly; “they’re lucky to get bacon.”

The Boy’s face darkened ominously.  When he looked like that the elder men found it was “healthiest to give him his head.”  But the young face cleared as quickly as it had clouded.  After all, the point wasn’t worth fighting for, since grouse would take time to cook, and—­here were the natives coming painfully along the shore.

The Boy ran out and shouted and waved his cap.  The other men of the camp, who had gone in the opposite direction, across the river ice to look at an air-hole, came hurrying back and reached camp about the same time as the visitors.

“Thought you said they were big fellows!” commented Mac, who had come to the door for a glimpse of the Indians as they toiled up the slope.

“Well, so they are!”

“Why, the Colonel would make two of any one of them.”

“The Colonel!  Oh well, you can’t expect anybody else to be quite as big as that.  I was in a hurry, but I suppose what I meant was, they could eat as much as the Colonel.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, just look how broad they are.  It doesn’t matter to your stomach whether you’re big up and down, or big to and fro.”

“It’s their furs make ’em look like that.  They’re the most awful little runts I ever saw!”

“Well, I reckon you’d think they were big, too—­big as Nova Scotia—­if you’d found ’em—­come on ’em suddenly like that in the woods—­”

“Which is the...?”

“Oh, the son of the chief is in the middle, the one who is taking off his civilised fur-coat.  He says his father’s got a heap of pelts (you could get things for your collection, Mac), and he’s got two reindeer-skin shirts with hoods—­’parkis,’ you know, like the others are wearing—­”