Johnny was not surprised, two days later, when, on coming out of his storeroom, he found a dark-faced and ugly Chukche looking in.
“Plenty cow-cow,” the man grimaced.
“Ti-ma-na” (enough), said Johnny.
“Wanchee sack flour mine.”
“No,” said Johnny, closing and locking the door.
The man departed with a sour look on his face. He returned within an hour. With him was a boy. Between them they carried the most perfectly preserved mastodon tusk Johnny had ever seen.
“Flour?” the man said, pointing to the tusk.
Johnny could not resist the temptation to barter for the tusk. He yielded. The man carried his flour away in triumph.
After that, not a day passed but a half score or more of the natives came sneaking about the cabin, the storeroom, and the mine, begging for food.
As the days wore on, as famine came poking his skeleton form into the igloos of the improvident natives, the condition became truly serious.