hibernation. An-ina, Julyman, Oolak, were all his able
lieutenants, but Steve's was the guiding mind and hand. The others were
people of the same colour as these half Eskimos.

The hubbub and chaffer of it all went on the day long. The store was
alive with the squat, black-eyed, dusky creatures, swathed in their
Arctic furs. They brought all their trade, surplus stocks of the dried
Adresol weed, pelts, beaver and grey fox, wolf and seal. And for these
they demanded equipment and supplies for the open season's hunt. They
were mainly a good-natured and unsuspicious crowd whose guttural tongue
was harsh and very voluble. They needed handling. Essentially they
needed handling by the white man.

Steve had been relieved for his midday meal. He was relieved by An-ina,
assisted by Julyman. Oolak stood by with his club, ready for any display
of the predatory instincts that yielded to temptation.

Steve had not yet returned from the kitchen. He had finished his hearty
meal and lit his pipe. He was standing before the window, from which all
covering had been removed at the advance of the open season.

The air was chill. For the moment he was staring out reflectively at the
clear, bright sunlight, while the buzz of voices in the store hummed
upon his ears. It was well-nigh a perfect Northern spring day. The sky
was a-froth with white, sunlit clouds. But the sunlight had little
relation to the sunlight of more temperate climates at such a season. It
was fiercely bright against the melting snows, with a steely chill that
entirely lacked the gracious promise of budding trees and tender
shooting grass. At best it spoke of the final passing of the wastes of
snow and ice.

These things, however, were not concerning Steve. It was one of those
moments of solitude in which he could give run to the thoughts that most
nearly concerned him. His eyes had parted from the shadowy smile which
they usually wore before the eyes of others. Just now they were scarcely
happy, and the drawn brows suggested a lurking trouble that disturbed
him. He was thinking of Marcel. Ever since the visitation of Hervey
Garstaing, Marcel had rarely been out of his thoughts.

He removed his pipe and passed a hand across his broad brow. It was a
gesture of weariness. There were no eyes to witness the action, so he
attempted no disguise. It mattered little enough to him that the whole
world about him was awakening. It mattered nothing to him that the white
world wa