Part 19 (1/2)

continued he by way of introduction, indicating the red-headed man, ”is Eric the Red, our carpenter, and this,” turning to the other, ”is the Duke of Wellington, our blacksmith. Fill up, Ungava Bob, and come over to the office and have a talk when you've finished dinner.”

”Sit doon, sit doon,” said the red-whiskered man, adding, as Mr.

MacPherson closed the door behind him, ”my true name's Sandy Craig and th' blacksmith here is Jamie Lunan. Th' boss ha' a way o' namin'

every mon t' suit hisself. Now, what's your true name, lad? 'Tis not Ungava Bob.”

”Bob Gray, an' I comes from Wolf Bight.”

”Now, where can Wolf Bight be?” asked Sandy.

”In Eskimo Bay, sir.”

”Aye, aye, Eskimo Bay. 'Tis a lang way ye are from Eskimo Bay! Th'

s.h.i.+p folk tell o' Eskimo Bay a many hundred miles t' th' suthard. An'

Jamie an' me be a lang way fra' Petherhead. Be helpin' yesel' now, lad. Ha' some partridge an' ye maun be starvin' for bread, eatin' only th' grub o' th' heathen Injuns this lang while,” said he, pa.s.sing the plate, and adding in apology, ”'Tis na' such bread as we ha' in auld Scotland. Injun women canna make bread wi' th' Scotch la.s.sies an' we ne'er ha' a bit o' oatmeal or oat-cake. 'Tis bread, though. An' how could ye live wi' th' Injuns? 'Tis bad enough t' bide here wi' na'

neighbours but th' greasy huskies an' durty Injuns comin' now an'

again, but we has some civilized grub t' eat--sugar an' mola.s.ses an'

b.u.t.ter, such as 'tis.”

Sandy and Jamie plied Bob with all sorts of questions about Eskimo Bay and his life with the Indians, and they did not fail to tell him a good deal about Peterhead, their Scotland home, and both bewailed loudly the foolish desire for adventure that had induced them to leave it to be exiled in Ungava amongst the heathen Eskimos and Indians in a land where ”nine minths o' th' year be winter an' th' ither three remainin' minths infested wi' th' worst plagues o' Egypt, referrin' t'

th' flies an' nippers (mosquitoes).”

Strange and new it all was, and while he ate and talked, Bob took in his surroundings. The room was not unlike the Post kitchen at Eskimo Bay, though not so spotlessly clean. Besides the table there were two benches, four rough, home-made chairs and a big box stove that crackled cheerily. At one side three bunks were built against the wall and were spread with heavy woollen blankets. Two chests stood near the bunks and several guns rested upon pegs against the wall. Upon ropes stretched above the stove numerous duffel socks and mittens hung to dry. The Indian woman pa.s.sed in and out through a pa.s.sageway that led from the side of the room opposite the door at which he had entered and her kitchen was evidently on the other side of the pa.s.sageway.

Bob did not forget his resolution as to the bread, to which was added the luxury of b.u.t.ter, and more than once the Indian woman had to replenish the plate. When they arose from the table Jamie pointed out to Bob the bunk that he was to occupy. Then, while they smoked their pipes, they gossiped about the Post doings until the bell warned them that it was time to return to their work.

In accordance with Mr. MacPherson's instructions Bob walked over to the factor's office where he found a young man of eighteen or nineteen years of age writing at one of the desks.

”Sit down,” said he, looking up. ”Mr. MacPherson will be in shortly.

You're the young fellow just arrived, I suppose?”

”Yes, sir,” said Bob.

”You've had a long journey, I hear, and must be glad to get out. When did you leave home?”

”In September, sir, when I goes t' my trail.”

”I came here on the _Eric_ in September, and if you want to see home as badly as I do you're pretty anxious to get back there. But there isn't any chance of getting away from here till the s.h.i.+p comes. This is the last place G.o.d ever made and the loneliest. What did you say your name is?”

”Bob Gray, sir.”

”Well, Mr. MacPherson will call you something else, but don't mind that. He has a new name for every one. He calls Sishetakus.h.i.+n, one of the Indians you came in with, Abraham Lincoln because he's so tall, and one of the stout Eskimos is Grover Cleveland. That's the name of an American president. Mr. MacPherson gets the papers every year and keeps posted. He received, on the s.h.i.+p, all last year's issues of a New York paper called the _Sun_ besides a great packet of Scotch and English papers. But this _Sun_ he thinks more of than any of them and every morning he picks out the paper for that date the year before and reads it as though it had just been delivered. One year behind, but just as fresh here. He finds a lot of new names in 'em to give the Eskimos and Indians and the rest of us that way. I'm Secretary Bayard, whoever he may be. I don't read the American papers much. The chief clerk is Lord Salisbury, the new premier. You know the Conservatives downed the Liberals, and Gladstone is out. Good enough for him, too, for meddling in the Irish question. I'm a conservative, or I would be if I was home. We don't have a chance to be anything here. Now, I suppose you----”

Here Mr. MacPherson entered and the loquacious Secretary Bayard became suddenly engrossed in his work. The factor opened a door leading into a small room to the right.

”Come in here, Ungava Bob,” said he, ”and we'll have a talk. Now,” he continued when they were seated, ”what do you think you'll do?”

”I don't know, sir. I wants t' get home wonderful bad,” said Bob.