“Blackbeard has told me much, father, that I do not understand. His people do not hunt much—only a very few of them do.”
“Wah! they are lazy! The few hunt to keep the rest in meat, I suppose.”
“No, father, that is not the way. The few hunt for fun. The great many spend their time in changing one thing for another. They seem to be never satisfied—always changing, changing—every day, and all day. Getting and giving, and never satisfied.”
“Poor things!” said the chief.
“And they have no walruses, no white bears, no whales, nothing!” added the son.
“Miserables! Perhaps that is why they come here to search for nothing!”
“But, father, if they have got nothing at home, why come here to search for it?”
“What do they eat?” asked Amalatok, quickly, as if he were afraid of recurring to the puzzling question that had once already taken him out of his mental depth.
“They eat all sorts of things. Many of them eat things that are nasty—things that grow out of the ground; things that are very hot and burn the tongue; things that are poison and make them ill. They eat fish too, like us, and other people bring them their meat in great oomiaks from far-off lands. They seem to be so poor that they cannot find enough in their own country to feed themselves.”
“Wretched creatures!” said the old man, pitifully. “Yes, and they drink too. Drink waters so hot and so terrible that they burn their mouths and their insides, and so they go mad.”