“Is the man alone?” he asked, as they hurried along.
“No; Ippegoo is with him, staring at him.” They soon reached the ledge of rock where Okiok had seen the “something,” and, looking cautiously over it, Rooney beheld his friend Kajo smoking a long clay pipe such as Dutchmen are supposed to love. Ippegoo was watching him in a state of ecstatic absorption.
Rooney drew back and indulged in a fit of stifled laughter for a minute, but his companion was too much surprised even to smile.
“Is he doing that curious thing,” asked Okiok in a low voice, “which you once told me about—smookin’ tibooko?”
“Yes; that’s it,” replied Rooney with a broad grin, “only you had better say ‘smokin’ tobacco’ next time.”
“‘Smokkin’ tibucco,’” repeated the Eskimo; “well, that is funny. But why does he spit it out? Does he not like it?”
“Of course he likes it. At least I suppose he does, by the expression of his face.”
There could be little doubt that Rooney was right. Kajo had evidently got over the preliminary stages of incapacity and repugnance long ago, and had acquired the power of enjoying that mild and partial stupefaction—sometimes called “soothing influence”—which tobacco smoke affords. His eyes blinked happily, like those of a cat in the sunshine; his thickish lips protruded poutingly as they gripped the stem; and the smoke was expelled slowly at each puff, as if he grudged losing a single whiff of the full flavour.
Scarcely less interesting was the entranced gaze of Ippegoo. Self-oblivion had been effectively achieved in that youth. A compound of feelings—interest, surprise, philosophical inquiry, eager expectancy, and mild alarm—played hide-and-seek with each other in his bosom, and kept him observant and still.
“Why,” asked Okiok, after gazing in silent admiration for a few minutes over the ledge, “why does he not swallow it, if he likes it, and keep it down?”