Klosh-Kwan recited the information brought by Bim and Bawn, and at its close said in a stern voice:  “So explanation is wanted, O Keesh, of thy manner of hunting.  Is there witchcraft in it?”

Keesh looked up and smiled.  “Nay, O Klosh-Kwan.  It is not for a boy to know aught of witches, and of witches I know nothing.  I have but devised a means whereby I may kill the ice-bear with ease, that is all.  It be headcraft, not witchcraft.”

“And may any man?”

“Any man.”

There was a long silence.  The men looked in one another’s faces, and Keesh went on eating.

“And ... and ... and wilt thou tell us, O Keesh?” Klosh-Kwan finally asked in a tremulous voice.

“Yea, I will tell thee.”  Keesh finished sucking a marrow-bone and rose to his feet.  “It is quite simple.  Behold!”

He picked up a thin strip of whalebone and showed it to them.  The ends were sharp as needle-points.  The strip he coiled carefully, till it disappeared in his hand.  Then, suddenly releasing it, it sprang straight again.  He picked up a piece of blubber.

“So,” he said, “one takes a small chunk of blubber, thus, and thus makes it hollow.  Then into the hollow goes the whalebone, so, tightly coiled, and another piece of blubber is fitted over the whalebone.  After that it is put outside where it freezes into a little round ball.  The bear swallows the little round ball, the blubber melts, the whalebone with its sharp ends stands out straight, the bear gets sick, and when the bear is very sick, why, you kill him with a spear.  It is quite simple.”

And Ugh-Gluk said “Oh!” and Klosh-Kwan said “Ah!” And each said something after his own manner, and all understood.

And this is the story of Keesh, who lived long ago on the rim of the polar sea.  Because he exercised headcraft and not witchcraft, he rose from the meanest igloo to be head man of his village, and through all the years that he lived, it is related, his tribe was prosperous, and neither widow nor weak one cried aloud in the night because there was no meat.

[Illustration]

NAM-BOK THE UNVERACIOUS

“A Bidarka, is it not so!  Look! a bidarka, and one man who drives clumsily with a paddle!”

Old Bask-Wah-Wan rose to her knees, trembling with weakness and eagerness, and gazed out over the sea.

“Nam-Bok was ever clumsy at the paddle,” she maundered reminiscently, shading the sun from her eyes and staring across the silver-spilled water.  “Nam-Bok was ever clumsy.  I remember....”

But the women and children laughed loudly, and there was a gentle mockery in their laughter, and her voice dwindled till her lips moved without sound.

Koogah lifted his grizzled head from his bone-carving and followed the path of her eyes.  Except when wide yawns took it off its course, a bidarka was heading in for the beach.  Its occupant was paddling with more strength than dexterity, and made his approach along the zigzag line of most resistance.  Koogah’s head dropped to his work again, and on the ivory tusk between his knees he scratched the dorsal fin of a fish the like of which never swam in the sea.