Behind Annadoah, at the door of the tent, the form of a man stooped.  As he emerged, Ootah saw he was taller than Annadoah’s tent.  His shoulders were broad and massive.  His face, bronzed by the burning sun, was like tanned leather, hard, wrinkled; his expression was as grim as graven stone.  His large blue eyes glittered with the coldness of flint.  His hair and long curling moustache were blond.  Ootah recognized “Olafaksoah”—­Olaf, the great white trader—­whom he had seen two seasons before at a southern village.  He was noted for his brutality and hard bargaining.

“What’s all the noise about?” he growled.  His voice was deep and gruff.

Ootah staggered back.

“Annadoah, Annadoah,” he moaned softly, supporting himself on the upstander of his loaded sled.

Olafaksoah strode forward with great steps, scowling.  He critically surveyed the loads of blubber and gleaming walrus tusks.

“Good haul, boy—­good haul!  Game’s been pretty scarce all along the coast.  It’s lucky we got here in time, eh, comrades?  What’ll you take”—­he turned to Ootah—­“I don’t know your name.”  He spoke in broken Eskimo.

“Ootah,” Annadoah whispered, “that is his name.  Ha-ha, thou callest him a boy.”

Ootah winced.

Olafaksoah, with heavy strides, passed down the line of sledges.  Turning to his men, he called: 

“Bring the junk.”

A sled of matches, needles, tea, biscuits, knives, tin cups, a few hatchets, and several guns and cases of ammunition were brought.  While these were unloaded a half-dozen eager natives hastened into their tents and hurriedly brought out their portions of the preciously preserved skins and ivories of the meagre summer hunt.  Clamorous, insistent, they presented these to Olafaksoah.  They clustered around him so that he could not walk.  Ootah watched as the bargaining began.  He saw Annadoah clinging near the white trader.  A number of the white men began dickering down the line with Arnaluk.

“Load blubber—­one tin cup—­box black powder.”

Arnaluk shook his head.  Olafaksoah cuffed him with his fist.  The timid native did not have the courage to resent this brutality.

“What d’ye want, you greedy savage—­two boxes matches!”

“Two boxes matches—­one box shooting fire—­one tin cup.”

Still he could not be persuaded to part with the precious meat.  Olafaksoah swore and shook his fists.  Fearful of offending the stranger, the women joined in and shrieked at Arnaluk, urging him to consent.

Unprotesting, he let them draw away his sled of blubber and tusks.  He had a tin cup, matches and cartridges—­which he could not eat.

“Rotten lot,” Olafaksoah said to Papik, surveying his single catch of a young walrus.  Papik winced at this reproach.