“My son,” continued Amalatok, “these Kablunets seem to be stout-bodied fellows; can they fight—are they brave?”
“They are brave, father, very brave. Even the little one, whom they call Bunjay, is brave—also, he is funny. I have never seen the Kablunets fight with men, but they fight well with the bear and the walrus and the ice. They are not such fools as you seem to think. True, about this nothing—this Nort Pole—they are quite mad, but in other matters they are very wise and knowing, as you shall see before long.”
“Good, good,” remarked the old chief, flinging the walrus rib at an intrusive dog with signal success, “I am glad to hear you say that, because I may want their help.”
Amalatok showed one symptom of true greatness—a readiness to divest himself of prejudice.
“For what do you require their help, father?” asked Chingatok.
Instead of answering, the old chief wrenched off another walrus rib from its native backbone, and began to gnaw it growlingly, as if it were his enemy and he a dog.
“My father is disturbed in his mind,” said the giant in a sympathising tone.
Even a less observant man than Chingatok might have seen that the old chief was not only disturbed in mind, but also in body, for his features twitched convulsively, and his face grew red as he thought of his wrongs.
“Listen,” said Amalatok, flinging the rib at another intrusive dog, again with success, and laying his hand impressively on his son’s arm. “My enemy, Grabantak—that bellowing walrus, that sly seal, that empty-skulled puffin, that porpoise, cormorant, narwhal—s–s–sus!”
The old man set his teeth and hissed.