38 BY ESKIMO DOG-SLED 



The walls flapped in the breeze and strained 

 against the poles. 



&quot; Does not the rain come in sometimes ? &quot; I 

 asked. 



Bob looked up at the hole in the top of the 

 tent, where the cover was gathered round the 

 bunch of poles. &quot; Oh, yes,&quot; he said, &quot; the 

 rain sometimes comes in and trickles down the 

 poles, but we get out of the way.&quot; 



Admirable idea ! Just think of the tent- 

 dwellers on a rainy night ! With real Eskimo 

 good humour they arrange themselves between 

 the poles, so that the raindrops can collect and 

 trickle and drip beside them. What care they ? 

 They are dry, and that is something to be 

 thankful for. And if sometimes they are wet, 

 well, they do not mind so very much : like true 

 Eskimos, they are content to take the rough 

 and the smooth together. 



The mention of Bob and his tent reminds me 

 of the famous old heathen chief of that same 

 village of Killinek. Tuglavi was his name, 

 and I saw him many a time as I wandered 

 about among the rocks and the tents ; a 

 weird, wild-looking old man, with a childish 

 smile on his face. He used to follow me by 

 hours at a time, muttering strangely to him 

 self, and answering all my questions with only 

 a broadening of his constant smile. Poor old 



