The same traveller describes the hunting equipment of a party of Eskimos setting out in pursuit of bears.
First, the dogs. These were picketed, each team separately, on a convenient area of level ground; and on the approach of Dr. Hayes and his companions they sprang up from the knotted heap, in which they had been lying through the night, with a wild, fierce yell, which died away into a low whine and impatient snarl. They evidently were hungry, and their masters seemed desirous of feeding them; for, going to their sledges, each one brought up a flat piece of something which looked singularly like plate-iron, but, upon examination, was found to be walrus-hide, three-quarters of an inch thick, and frozen intensely hard. Throwing it upon the snow a few feet in advance of their respective teams, they drew their knives from their capacious boots, and attempted to cut up the skin; but its hardness defied all their efforts, and Dr. Hayes had to fetch hatchet and saw before the work of division could be completed.
During the few minutes thus occupied, the dogs had become almost frantic. They endeavoured to break loose; pulling on their traces, running back and springing forward, straining and choking themselves until their eyes shot fire, and the foam flew from their mouths. The sight of food had stimulated their wolfish passions, and they seemed ready to eat each other. Not a moment passed that two or more of them were not flying at each other’s throats, and, grappling together, rolled, and tossed, and tumbled over the snow.
The Eskimos looked on apparently unconcerned, except when there appeared a risk of one of the dogs being injured, and then they secured a temporary calm by uttering an angry nasal “Ay! Ay!”
When at length the food was thrown, the dogs uttered a greedy scream, which was followed by a moment’s silence while the pieces were falling, then by a scuffle, and the hard, frozen chunks had vanished. How they were swallowed, or how they were digested, was, to the spectator, inexplicable! Enough to say that “the jaws of darkness did devour them up,” and calm instantaneously succeeded to the storm.
The Eskimo dog is of medium size, and squarely built; in fact, he is a reclaimed wolf, and exhibits that variety of colour which, after a few generations, generally characterizes tame animals. Gray, which is often seen, was probably at one time the predominating colour. Some of the dogs are black, with white breasts; some are wholly white; others are reddish or yellowish; but, indeed, almost every shade may be seen amongst them. Their skin is covered with a coarse, compact fur, and is much valued by the natives for the purposes of clothing. In the form of the animals the variety is considerable; but the general characters would seem to be a pointed nose, short ears, a cowardly, treacherous eye, and a hanging tail. But exceptions occasionally occur, and one figures in Dr. Hayes’ narrative under the name of Toodlamik, or, more briefly, Toodla.
He differed from his kind in having a more compact head, a less pointed nose, an eye denoting affection and reliance, and an erect, bold, fearless carriage. Dr. Hayes, however, expresses some doubt as to his purity of blood. From the beginning to the end of the cruise he was master of all the dogs that were brought to the ship. In this connection it is worthy of remark, that in every pack one dog invariably attains the mastership of the whole—a kind of major-generalship; and in each team, one who is master of his comrades, a general of brigade. Once master, always master; but the post of honour is gained at the cost of many a lame leg and ghastly wound, and is held only by doing daily battle against all comers. These could easily gain the ascendancy in every case, but for their own petty jealousies, which often prevent their union for such a purpose. If a combination, however, does happen to be brought about, and the leader is hopelessly beaten, he is never worth anything afterward; his spirit is completely prostrated, the poor fellow pines away, and dies at last of a broken heart.
ESKIMO DOGS.
Toodla, says Dr. Hayes, was a character in his way. He was a tyrant of no mean pretension. Apparently he thought it his special duty to attack every dog, great or small, that was added to the pack: if the animal was a large one, in order, probably, that he might at once be forced to feel that he had a master; if a small one, in order that the others might hold him in the greater awe. It was sometimes quite amusing to see him set off in pursuit of a strange dog, his head erect, his tail curled gracefully over his back; slowly and deliberately he went straight at his mark, with the confident, defiant air of one who recognizes the power and importance of his office. Leagues and conspiracies were not unfrequently formed against him, induced, no doubt, by a feeling of despair; but he always succeeded in overthrowing them,—not, it is true, without occasional assistance from “without;” for the sailors, who petted him greatly, would sometimes take his part when the struggle was manifestly unequal.