DAYS IN CAMP 285 
I caught one of them later. It is something like our 
bullhead, and the Samoyeds call it ‘har-mur-gai-ly-i.’ 
‘The cloudberry fruit is now developing. It is green 
at present, and tightly wrapped up in the calyx.’ 
Sunday, August 5th.—A wonderfully clear day. All 
the Samoyeds and Hyland went down to the sea mean- 
ing to catch geese. I remained in camp, for I had 
much flower-pressing and other work to do. They left 
eight dogs in camp, who never stopped yelling the whole 
time. 
Old Sailor nearly brought down his doom to-day. 
He has no teeth; but there is something in his English 
growl—a rolling bass—which answers as well. No 
matter what dog, however fierce or big, comes up with 
the intention of eating Sailor, as soon as he, Sailor, 
stiffens his back and speaks the enemy incontinently 
draws off. But he is a rash old dog. Absolutely fear- 
less, he will go prowling round the choom, intruding on 
the others’ ground. I always felt that he would do it 
once too often. And to-day he deliberately went and took 
a bone from the middle of a group of three dogs. There 
was a moment's pause of sheer astonishment, and then 
like a flash the three were on to him. Another second, 
and Sailor was in the middle of a pack of screaming 
demi-wolves. Ni-arr-way wasn’t there, thank goodness! 
nor the big brindle ; they were at the goosing ; but there 
were quite enough without them. I actually saw one 
