in boots.

The Eskimo only grinned from ear to ear. He seemed ready to laugh at
everything. His little bright eyes missed nothing.

"These husky-maws are so bloomin' curious," said Jim. "Just like them
husky dogs. Hafta take the lid off 'n' look into everything. The cook
says he dasn't turn his back to the stove. Don't you let 'em into the
cabin!"

"There's one of 'em in there now!" cried Bill. Out of a port-hole
issued the notes of a hymn, which one of the Eskimo was pumping out of
a melodeon.

"Come up outa there!" yelled Bill, thrusting his head in at the
doorway.

The Eskimo didn't understand the words, but he knew what the tone
meant, and meekly turned a smiling face toward the sailor.

Then he jumped up from his seat on the top of a keg and put out his
hand. Bill took the pudgy, greasy little fingers. The Eskimo brought
from somewhere in his blouse a piece of ivory carved in the likeness
of a boat with rowers.

"How much d'ye want for that?" asked Bill.

The Eskimo shook his head.

"Are ye deaf?" cried Bill. "How much d'ye want for the boat?"

"Aw shucks!" exclaimed Jim. "Hollerin' so loud don't do no good. He
dunno what you're sayin'. He can't talk English. Show him your
clasp-knife. That'll talk to him better'n you can. He wants to swop
with ye."

Bill brought out the big knife. The little brown man nodded eagerly.
Then he handed over the ivory boat. It was worth a great deal more
than the knife. But not to the Eskimo. That knife would be a precious
thing to help him carve meat and cut things out of sealskin and
perhaps stab a polar bear.

"So everybody's happy?" laughed a clear and pleasant voice at Bill's
shoulder. "You traded about even, did you?"

"Guess so, Doctor. He's got what he wants, and I'm goin' to send the
boat to the kiddies in the old country."

That night as the men sat around the cabin lamp with their pipes and a
big pail of steaming cocoa, Dr. Grenfell told them something about the
strange people they had come among.

He had spent all day ashore among them, in various repairs to their
bodies, and he had promised to come back to them in the morning.

"They're a nice, jolly, friendly lot," he said. "So different from
the old days, before the Moravian missionaries came.

"You know, they always called themselves 'Innuits.' That means 'the
people.' They said God went on making human beings till He made the
Eskimo. When He saw them, He was perfectly satisfied, and didn't make