210 BY ESKIMO DOG-SLED 



storeroom for the new supplies of food ; we 

 talked and talked about the ship we could 

 talk of nothing else. And then, in spite of 

 all our waiting, we were taken by surprise. 

 Suddenly, suddenly, there came a shout. 



&quot;Pujoliarluit &quot; (the big steamer), it roared 

 and shrilled from all parts of the village. Guns 

 banged ; people came running, shouting as 

 they ran, racing for the jetty ; and out on 

 the bay a man was paddling home as if for 

 dear life. As soon as he was near enough to 

 be heard he yelled, &quot;A fire on Parkavik.&quot; 

 That was enough ; a fire on the beach might 

 be cookery, but a fire on the hill was the signal ; 

 and he in his kayak had seen the smoke and 

 had fired the two bangs with his gun that the 

 people understood. Boats came bustling across 

 the bay, with sails spread and oars all busy : 

 and in half an hour the quiet village was 

 populous again. Every house seemed to have 

 a flag, from the big red ensign on the Mission 

 flagstaff to the bandanna handkerchief that 

 was fluttering on an oar out of somebody s 

 window. Even the old widow in the hut 

 behind the hospital was entering into the 

 spirit of the day ; she had no flag, but she 

 had sacrificed her red petticoat, and was 

 scrambling up her roof to pin it to a tent pole 

 propped against the eaves. 



