One morning a few weeks later the sun rose quickly over the horizon, as if it had overslept and was hurrying to make up lost time. Its angry crimson face threw a lurid glow across the sky, like the reflection of some mighty conflagration.
A small coast-boat, dancing on the waves of a flood-tide, tugged impatiently at her anchor, while a strong south wind sportively dashed an occasional drenching spray across her deck, much to the discomfort of a number of men lying there.
At length one of these recumbent figures rose slowly to his feet and scanned the horizon with a sailor’s eye. It was our old friend George Hopkins. He stood for a moment staring at the crimson sunrise, then touched the nearest sleeper with his foot. “At-tee, Oulybuck, A-no-ee pi-chi-ak (Now, Oulybuck, it is a fair wind),” he said.
The Eskimo addressed threw back his blankets with a sleepy ejaculation, rose to his knees and then to his feet, gazing around him the while. When his eye encountered the threatening sky he uttered a disapproving grunt.
One by one four other Eskimos crawled from under their blankets, yawned, stretched themselves, and scowled at the approaching storm.
In a few minutes the little anchor was up and the boat was speeding on her way north. Hopkins perched himself in the stern to steer while the Eskimos dropped into positions of ease, awaiting orders.
Soon the wind freshened and the sea began to dance. As the boat cut her way through the billows a head was poked out from an improvised cabin amidships. It was the head of a man well on in years, with grey hair and a long grey beard. His keen blue eyes scanned the heavens, noted the direction of the wind, then turned to the steersman.
“Fair wind, eh! George?” he remarked.
Hopkins glanced at the lowering clouds, then with dubious cheerfulness, he replied: “Yes, but we’ll have bad weather before long.”
“Let us hope you are mistaken,” returned the other, withdrawing his head.