"Whisht lad! Th' chayfe don't know no 'rithmetic. Two potlatches is bether thin wan, an' beyant that he ain't goin' to study.
"We'll wor-rk ut loike this: they's about tin pound av mate apiece—no gr-reat glut—but enough to kape um busy afther th' dance. Th' dance'll begin phwin th' sun jist edges yondher peaks, an' wanst they git het to the wor-rk, 'twill kape up till mid-noight. We'll dhrag th' mate over, an' Bill, here, he'll shtand ridy wid his axe to cut ut in chunks, an' Oi'll toss ut to wan an' another so they'll all git a piece. They'll ghrab ut an' dhrive their har-rpoons into ut so they kin howld ut over th' foir-re an' thaw ut out. They'll ate ut raw off th' ind av th' har-rpoons—'tis a gr-rand soight!
"Now, her-re's phwere th' b'y comes in: as soon as Bill shtar-rts choppin' mate, ye must shlip over here an' har-rness th' dogs f'r all ye're worth. Ye must finish befoor th' mate's all doled out. Hav' th' loight grub an' th' robes an' shlapin' bags on th' sleds, but lave th' tint shtand. Lave th' roifles in th' pack; they've niver kilt me, an' Oi won't see har-rm come to thim—but av Oi c'd git a good cr-rack at wan or two wid me fisht, 'tw'd aise th' mimry av thim, twinty-wan toimes they've dhrug me back over th' tundra.
"Wanst their har-rpoons gits dhrove into th' fr-rozen mate, they'll niver git um out till they're thawed out. They'll be too heavy to run wid, an' be th' toime they kin fr-ree thim, we'll be safe on th' Ignatook, phwere they wudn't come afther us av they doied fur-rst.
"We kin take our own toime gittin' to th' outsoide. They's plinty av grub in th' tunnel—an' plinty av gold, too—all put away in tomatty cans; an' they're heavy—foorty pound apiece they weigh, av they weigh an ounce—an' that's wan rayson they've tur-med me back thim twinty-wan toimes.
"How far-r did ye say ut wuz to Flor-ridy, afther ye cr-ross th' muskeg?"
"I reckon it's quite a spell, O'Brien," answered Waseche. "But yo' c'n bet yo' last blue one, me an' th' kid'll see yo' git theah—an' don't yo' fo'get it!"
Darkness—not the black darkness of the States, but the long twilight of the early Arctic night—descended upon the Lillimuit. Upon the narrow plateau overlooking the unnamed river, squat fur-clad figures emerged from the tunnel-like entrances of the igloos and, harpoon in hand, moved slowly through the gloom toward a circular level of hard-packed snow immediately in front of the house of the chief, where other figures were busily heaping brushwood and frozen pieces of drift upon a fire that smoked and smouldered in the centre of the area.
At the edge of the circle, Waseche Bill, Connie Morgan, and O'Brien sat upon the haunches of venison and watched the strange men and women take their places about the fire where they ranged themselves in two circles, one within the other, and waited in stolid silence for the appearance of the two chiefs.