“Well, my father?”
“It is not well, my son. It is all ill. That marrowless bear is stirring up his people, and there is no doubt that we shall soon be again engaged in a bloody—a useless war.”
“What is it all about, father?”
“About!—about nothing.”
“Huk! about Nort Pole—nothing,” murmured Chingatok—his thoughts diverted by the word.
“No, it is worse than Nort Pole, worse than nothing,” returned the chief sternly; “it is a small island—very small—so small that a seal would not have it for a breathing-place. Nothing on it; no moss, no grass. Birds won’t stay there—only fly over it and wink with contempt. Yet Grabantak says he must have it—it is within the bounds of his land!”
“Well, let him have it, if it be so worthless,” said Chingatok, mildly.
“Let him have it!” shouted the chief, starting up with such violence as to overturn the cooking-lamp—to which he paid no regard whatever—and striding about the small hut savagely, “no, never! I will fight him to the last gasp; kill all his men; slay his women; drown his children; level his huts; burn up his meat—”
Amalatok paused and glared, apparently uncertain about the propriety of wasting good meat. The pause gave his wrath time to cool.
“At all events,” he continued, sitting down again and wrenching off another rib, “we must call a council and have a talk, for we may expect him soon. When you arrived we took you for our enemies.”