"What's all this rumpus?" the Doctor demanded of Azazruk, the Eskimo.
"Can you understand their jargon?"
"They say," said the Eskimo, showing his white teeth in a grin, "that they know we are spirits—spirits of dead whales, since we come out of a whale's back, that came up from under the sea. They say not kill them us please. They say this that one. They say, kill plenty whale that one chief native. They say, fire for spirit of dead whale not make that, them. They say that, this one native. But they say not kill them and for sure they make fire, sing song for spirit of dead whale."
The Doctor, who understood this to be one of the superstitions of the natives, and knew that they had taken the submarine for a whale, began to laugh. But at once he checked himself.
Turning a scowling face at the only two standing natives, one of whom had a fresh cut across his cheek, he stormed:
"And why have these fellows no shame? Tell them to fall down at once, or
I will step on them."
Azazruk repeated the message, and, surprised and frightened, the two men obeyed.
The Doctor eyed the two curiously for a moment as they lay there squinting up at him, their slant eyes gleaming with suppressed anger.
"Look like they'd been in a fight," he remarked.
And so they did. The darker of the two had the cut on his cheek, before mentioned, his fur parka was torn half off him, displaying some ugly bruises. His companion had lost half a sleeve and his right hand was bleeding.
"They're surely rascals, but you must play the good Samaritan at all times," he said, as he bent over one of them. "Rainey, get my case from the locker, will you?"