"How?" growled the big man, sourly.
"There's a large open skin-boat, an oomiak, down on the beach. We'll hire a crew of Indians to put us across to Uyak."
"Can't be done," said Big George, still gruffly. "It's the wrong season. You know the Shelikof Straits is a bad place even for steamships at this time of year. They're like that Pass up yonder, only worse."
"But it's only fifty miles across."
"Fifty miles of that kind of water in an open canoe may be just as bad as five hundred—unless you're lucky. And I ain't noticed anything so damned lucky about us."
"Well, it's that or nothing. It's our only chance. Are you game?"
"Come on," cried Big George, "let's find Petellin!"
When that worthy heard their desire, he uttered a shriek of denial.
"In summer, yes, but now—you can't do it. It has been tried too often. The Straits is always rough, and the weather is too cold to sit all day in an oomiak, you'd freeze."
"We'll chance it."