THE DISTANT DRUMS
War broke out in August, 1914, as everyone knows. In the October of that same memorable year, Garry Redmond, descending from the Far-alone country to the comparative civilisation of the All-alone, found in the possession of John Akkamuk a bottle, with a scrap of newspaper stuck to it.
Squatting in the thick murk of John Akkamuk’s winter house, Garry lifted the bottle to the lamplight, and read the paper.
“You give me this, John?” he suggested.
John thought his white friend had gone mad; but then, he often thought so.
“Yes,” he said, “you have him. You good feller.” He had just struck an excellent bargain with Garry over a loon-skin rug, and felt generous.
Garry pulled out of his pocket a tiny canvas bag, from which he shook into his broad palm a glittering fairy pyramid of gold dust.
“Where you get that?” asked John, leaning forward.
Garry grinned at him, happily.
“Ne’er mind, my simple heathen,” said he. “I’ll get lots more of it next summer. This is just a free sample; but I’ll give it to you right now if you can find me the bit that’s tore off this paper.”