"Good haul, boy—good haul! Game's been pretty scarce all along the coast. It's lucky we got here in time, eh, comrades? What'll you take"—he turned to Ootah—"I don't know your name." He spoke in broken Eskimo.
"Ootah," Annadoah whispered, "that is his name. Ha-ha, thou callest him a boy."
Ootah winced.
Olafaksoah, with heavy strides, passed down the line of sledges.
Turning to his men, he called:
"Bring the junk."
A sled of matches, needles, tea, biscuits, knives, tin cups, a few hatchets, and several guns and cases of ammunition were brought. While these were unloaded a half-dozen eager natives hastened into their tents and hurriedly brought out their portions of the preciously preserved skins and ivories of the meagre summer hunt. Clamorous, insistent, they presented these to Olafaksoah. They clustered around him so that he could not walk. Ootah watched as the bargaining began. He saw Annadoah clinging near the white trader. A number of the white men began dickering down the line with Arnaluk.
"Load blubber—one tin cup—box black powder."
Arnaluk shook his head. Olafaksoah cuffed him with his fist. The timid native did not have the courage to resent this brutality.
"What d'ye want, you greedy savage—two boxes matches!"
"Two boxes matches—one box shooting fire—one tin cup."