“At Cape Eskimo,” replied the other, mentioning a point some two hundred miles south of Fort Future.
“And you haven’t tasted tea since; poor devil!” Roy now exhorted Sahanderry to at once supply the packet man with what he desired.
But the Indian had a comprehensive knowledge of “tripping,” and had already brewed a kettle of tea. He now offered Hopkins a large mugful.
“Why, that’s capital, Sahanderry,” cried Roy, and he bade George seat himself and eat and drink to his heart’s content. “You’ve earned it,” he declared. “You can come to me later for the whiskey.”
With the “packet” under his arm Roy entered his sanctum sanctorum, closely followed by Broom, whose face displayed the resentment he was feeling at what he considered Hopkins’ idiosyncrasy in preferring tea to whiskey. He considered Hopkins had thrown away a glorious opportunity, and expressed his irritation in sullen looks and dissatisfied demeanor. “Of all the lunatics,” he murmured to himself, glaring back at the unconscious cause of his anger.
The trader opened the “packet” without any unseemly haste, for he felt the other’s eyes upon him. There were a goodly number of letters and newspapers. These he commenced to sort, but, feeling that Broom was watching his every movement, he suddenly stopped, caught up a handful of newspapers at random and handed them to his too watchful companion.
Broom took the newspapers awkwardly and murmured something, presumably his thanks.
Again Roy turned to his correspondence. He hummed an Eskimo Crane song as he separated the letters from the papers.
“Oo-ee-yah, Oo-ee-yah-ah; Moo-nick-koo-li, Shah-pa-ah;
Moo-nick-loon-ee, Nip-yaik-tal-ee,