Our very generous demeanor towards their needs elicited the stormiest approval, but we regretfully learned that it prolonged their occupation of the ship which, so far as fragrance was considered, had seriously declined from its former estate of habitability. Articles of all sorts come handy to these people, but as we were not prepared for their omnivorous demands, tobacco formed the staple of our barter.
Now in our little library, whose usefulness the sustained succession of long days of suspense or idleness had fully demonstrated, we had read in a small light blue book by Herbert L. Aldrich, called “Arctic Alaska and Siberia,” of the author’s visit to this very place. In the book a man, Gohara by name, was designated as “the Masinker of the Masinkers,” a man forty years of age, tall, commanding, and “by far the best specimen mentally and physically of his people.”
We discovered him. He was yet vigorous, though approaching seventy and his remarkable spouse—his third wife then—Siwurka, maintained a supreme position in his household, which the advent, since Aldrich’s visit, of two younger women had not disturbed. One of these later accessions to Gohara’s domestic felicity was a person of becoming rotundity, with a distracting tousle of hair that almost covered her eyes. The inexpugnable scientific curiosity of the Professor led him into his second predicament with this young person, which, for a moment, promised to be more serious than his inquisitional visit to the fur seals.
It was the last day of our stay at Indian Point which had been prolonged by the viewless stretches of ice moving out of the Arctic into Behring Sea, and we were all ashore. As usual the Professor deserted us, following out some preconcerted scheme of observation or experiment in which our participation was unnecessary or even resented. It was some hours after we had missed him, and our inspection of the tupicks, the dogs, the children, and the industrial products of the Masinkers was completed, that a large boy, prodigiously magnified by his big boots, rushed upon our trailing group crying:
“Doghter! Doghter! He out of head. Hoopla!”
The fellow was excited and out of breath with running, and his excitement became reflected in the faces of the natives around us, who were helplessly bewildered and looked so.
“It’s the Professor—another row. Hold back the crowd. I’ll go with this screaming lunatic and extricate our distinguished friend. Some scientific escapade, you can bet your hat on it,” whispered Hopkins.
To inquiries of his acquaintances the boy kept up an unintelligible jabber and pointed to the farther side of the village. Apparently the assemblage were on the point of bolting for the spot, in deference to the boy’s ejaculations. Hopkins handed us a package which he had been reserving for some sort of a valedictory to Chaplin and its unsavory population. It was a liberal assortment of quids, smoking tobacco, cigars and snuff, and its exhibition and immediate distribution quelled the flight of the rabble around us, whose inclination to stay where they were instantly hardened like adamant.
Hopkins seized the boy, turned him around, and the two vanished in the direction the boy had indicated. In about half an hour, or less, they returned with the Professor between them, much upset but calm, and apparently indifferent to the objurgations and imprecations, delivered in unvarnished and vigorous Tchoukchi, hurled at him by no less a man than Gohara, followed by his five wives, whose voices querulously mingled and reinforced their master’s denunciations. The situation was unquestionably very amusing, very curious, and, except for the fortunate intervention of Hopkins’ miscellaneous propitiations, might have become very annoying. We hurried the Professor to the beach, got into our boats, Hopkins making a stern-wise address to the multitude on the shore, a most grotesque and tumultuous bunch of long, short, thin, fat, smiling, frowning, dark and light figures in skins and fur, and reached the “Astrum,” which that very evening left the offing, and, over a clear, moon-lit sea was directed toward Port Clarence in Alaska. A hard blow was on, and the ice packs had been scattered or driven eastward.
Hopkins’ story that night, after the Professor had retired, which he did unusually early and with a complete resumption of his smile and his good humor, entertained us until after midnight. I abbreviate its windings and prolixity, interspersed with Hopkins’ incommunicable reflexions.