It was like an avalanche. Dr. Grenfell was swept off his legs, as if he had been bathing in the surf and a big wave rushed up and knocked him down.
The boldest jumped up on the stove, where the stewpot was, that sent out such a delicious smell.
He pried off the cover, and then the pot rolled off the stove with a terrible clatter, and its steaming contents were dumped out on the floor.
You could fairly hear those beasts screaming "That's mine! Get out of there! That belongs to me!" Just like greedy, quarrelsome boys that forgot their manners long ago, if they ever had any.
They fought with added fury because—the hot stew burned their noses. They were in such a hurry they couldn't wait for it to cool. They snuffled and scuffled, they bit and snarled and snorted, as they had done in the church with the hymn-books and then with the cabbages in the vegetable garden.
One of the dogs thrust his head in the pot to get the last "lickings" and then he couldn't shake it loose again.
Round and round the room he banged and struggled, till the Doctor took pity on him and hauled it off his head.
Meanwhile the house filled with steam as if it were on fire.
The Eskimos came rushing from everywhere, with shouts in their own tongue that sounded almost like the cries of the dogs.
They had long harpoon handles, and they pranced about the room, thwacking right and left.