"Now, hold on, son," cautioned Waseche Bill, with his hand upon the boy's shoulder. "We got to kind of take it easy. This heah ain't no time fo' an uprisin' of the whites—the odds ain't right." He turned to the Irishman:
"O'Brien, yo' want to get out of this heah country, don't yo'?"
"Sur-re, an' Oi do!" eagerly exclaimed the man. "But, ut's six years Oi've throied ut, an' nar-ry a wanst hav' Oi done ut. Av ye kin make ut, Oi'm wid yez—but, av we don't save th' dogs, we'll niver do ut. They're good thrailers, th' punkin faced ejits, an' they've br-rung me back twinty-wan toimes, be th' clock. Car-rlson an' Pete Mateese had dogs, an' they got away."
"We-all can make it! Don't yo' worry none. I be'n in tight fixes befo'. Jest yo' listen to me, an' stall the ol' boy off fo' a day oah two. That'll give us a chanst to make medicine." O'Brien turned to the old walrus-faced shaman and there followed a half-hour of lively conversation, at the end of which the man reported to Waseche:
"They're gr-reat hands f'r to hav' dances, ut's par-rt av their haythen religion—that is, they call um dances, an' ut shtar-rts in that way—but ut woinds up loike a Donnybrook fair. 'Tis gr-rand fun—wid har-rpoon shafts cr-rackin' down on heads loike quarther-staves; f'r barrin' pick handles, wan av thim har-rpoons is th' besht club, nixt to a black thor-rn shelala, f'r a foight amongst frinds, an-ny day in th' wake.
"Oi towld um th' dogs wuz skin-poor fr-rom th' long thrail, an' not fit f'r to ate, but a couple av days wid plinty av fish in their bellies, would fat um up loike a young seal.
"'We'll have a big potlatch,' says he. 'We've more fish thin we nayde. Feed up th' dogs,' says he, 'an' in two shlapes, we'll hav' th' biggest potlatch in th' histhry av th' thribe. We'll dance all night, f'r Oi'm gittin' owld,' says he, 'an' ut may be me lasht.' Oi hope so, thinks Oi, but Oi don't say so. An-nyhow, we kin resht airy f'r a couple av days an' th' dogs'll be safe an' well fed. 'Twud be all a man's loife wuz wor-rth to har-rm wan till th' owld man gives th' wor-rd. Ye said ut wuz raylly hot in Flor-ridy, b'y? Hot enough, d'ye think, that a felly c'd set ar-round in his shir'rt shlaves, an' shmoke a bit av an avenin'?"
O'Brien offered to share his igloo with Connie and Waseche Bill, but they declined with thanks after one look into the smoky interior that fairly reeked with the stench of rancid blubber and raw skin bedding.
Hardly had the dogs been unharnessed before four Indians appeared with huge armfuls of frozen fish, and while the gaunt malamutes gnawed ravenously at the food, the whole village looked on, men and women licking their chops in anticipation of the coming potlatch, pointing out the choicest of the dogs, and gesticulating and jabbering over the division of the spoils.