“You are very fond of him!” said the squaw with a keen look at her daughter.
“Yes, I am very fond of him,” replied Adolay with an air of unblushing candour, “and I think, mother, that you should be fond of him too.”
“So I am, girl, so I am, but what can I do?”
“You can go and tell the story to the old chief. He is not hard, like some of the young men. Perhaps he may help us.”
Isquay shook her head, but nevertheless agreed to try her influence with the old man, and went out for that purpose.
Meanwhile Adolay, who had not herself much faith in her mother’s advocacy of the poor Eskimo’s cause, resolved upon a separate course of action. Throwing a blanket over her head and shoulders, she started for the place where Cheenbuk stood, scornfully regarding the little boys who surrounded and insulted him by flourishing knives and hatchets close to his defenceless nose. They did not, however, dare to touch him, as the time had not yet arrived for actual torture.
Running forward, Adolay, who was a favourite with the young people, drove them back.
“Keep clear of him,” she cried with a fierce glare in her eyes—which was wonderfully realistic, considering that it was a mere piece of acting—“I want to speak to him—to terrify him—to fill him with horror!”
This was quite to the taste of the wretched little creatures, who fell back in a semi-circle and waited for more.
“Can you understand my speech?” she demanded as she turned on Cheenbuk with flashing eyes.