"Oh, eightee for the two?"
He nodded.
"Well, where's the other?"
"Hein?"
"The other—the third dog. Two are no good."
"Yes. Yes," he said angrily, "heap good dog."
"Well, I'll give you eighty dollars for these" (the Ingalik, taking a pipe out of his parki, held out one empty hand); "but who's got the other?"
For answer, a head-shake, the outstretched hand, and the words, "Eightee dolla—tabak—tea."
"Wait," interrupted the Boy, turning to the group of children; "where's the other dog?"
Nobody answered. The Boy pantomimed. "We want three dogs." He held up as many fingers. "We got two—see?—must have one more." A lad of about thirteen turned and began pointing with animation towards a slowly approaching figure.