"What's it all about?" the Boy asked.
"Ol' Chief heap sick," said the buck on the Boy's right.
"Ol' Chief, ol' father, b'long me," Nicholas observed with pride.
"Yes; but aren't the Holy Cross people nursing him?"
"Brother Paul gone; white medicine no good."
They all shook their heads and coughed despairingly.
"Then try s'm' other—some yella-brown, Esquimaux kind," hazarded the Boy lightly, hardly noticing what he was saying till he found nearly all the eyes of the company fixed intently upon him. Nicholas was translating, and it was clear the Boy had created a sensation.
"Father Wills no like," said one buck doubtfully. "He make cross-eyes when Shamán come."
"Oh yes, medicine-man," said the Boy, following the narrative eagerly.
"Shamán go way," volunteered an old fellow who hitherto had held his peace; "all get sick"—he coughed painfully—"heap Pymeuts die."