My Eskimo Friends (1924)

66 MY ESKIMO FRIENDS child stood watching intently the slowly moving black forms of an approaching team. Wetalltok it was, they thought, but as to whether he was coming loaded or empty, they could not yet tell. The gloom thickened and the sledge crawled like a snail. I went indoors for a moment for the ship’s big glass, when suddenly the wild exclamation “Netsuk!” resounded through the air. “Wetalltok it is, sir,” said Bill, “an’ what’s more he’s bringin’ home the seals.” “How many?” I asked as Wetalltok waded through the crowd toward us. “Timietow,” said he, holding up ten fingers. The babel of some forty dogs shattered the peace and quiet of the first calm night in many days. Around Wetalltok, his young son, and Tookalook, the dogs, just out of reach of Wetalltok’s cracking whip, circled belly-down, like the wolves they were. Their eyes, reflecting the lantern light, shone like bolts of fire. Their muzzles were white with froth of hunger. Constantly, Wetalltok kept cracking his whip around their circle, a dread lash with which he could split an ear or cut clear through their tough hides. But one or another would attempt a desperate sally for the seal meat which old Tookalook was portioning. They were too intent to fight save when some poor devil was caught by Wetalltok’s lash. The pain of it would send him bounding straight in the air, or maddened beyond all control he would bury his fangs in the unfortunate nearest him. When Bill and I turned toward camp the dogs were sleeping and Wetalltok and his tribe had crawled into the feast of the warmth-giving seal for which they had waited so long.