“Take off your skin coat and sit down,” invited the trader, who was, indeed, Mr. MacPherson of whom the Indians had told.

“Thank you, sir,” said Bob.

When he was finally seated Mr. McPherson asked: 

“That was Sishetakushin’s crowd you came with, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Bob answered.

“Where did you hail from?  It’s something new to see a white man come out of the bush with the Indians.”

“From Eskimo Bay, sir, an’ what place may this be?”

“Eskimo Bay!  Eskimo Bay!  Why, this is Ungava!  How in the world did you ever get across the country?  What’s your name?”

“My name’s Bob Gray, sir, an’ I lives at Wolf Bight.”  Then Bob went on, prompted now and again by the factor’s questions, to tell the story of his adventures.

“Well,” said Mr. MacPherson, “you’ve had a wonderful escape from freezing and death and a remarkable experience.  You’d better go over to the men’s house and they’ll put you up there.  Come back after you’ve had dinner and we’ll talk your case over.  The dinner bell is ringing now,” he added, as the big bell began to clang.  “Perhaps I’d better go over with you and show you the way.”

The men’s house, as the servants’ quarters were called, was a one-story log house but a few steps from the office.  As Bob and Mr. MacPherson entered it, a big man with a bushy red beard, and a tall brawny man with clean shaven face, both perhaps twenty-five or thirty years of age, and both with “Scot” written all over their countenances, were in the act of sitting down to an uncovered table, while an ugly old Indian hag was dishing up a savory stew of ptarmigan.

Bob’s eye took in a plate heaped high with white bread in the centre of the table and he mentally resolved that it should not be there when he had finished dinner.

“Here’s some company for you,” announced the factor.  “Ungava Bob just ran over from Eskimo Bay to pay us a visit.  Take care of him.  This,” continued he by way of introduction, indicating the red-headed man, “is Eric the Red, our carpenter, and this,” turning to the other, “is the Duke of Wellington, our blacksmith.  Fill up, Ungava Bob, and come over to the office and have a talk when you’ve finished dinner.”

“Sit doon, sit doon,” said the red-whiskered man, adding, as Mr. MacPherson closed the door behind him, “my true name’s Sandy Craig and th’ blacksmith here is Jamie Lunan.  Th’ boss ha’ a way o’ namin’ every mon t’ suit hisself.  Now, what’s your true name, lad?  ’Tis not Ungava Bob.”

“Bob Gray, an’ I comes from Wolf Bight.”

“Now, where can Wolf Bight be?” asked Sandy.

“In Eskimo Bay, sir.”