lag calls, just as we did on the
Irrawaddy, to take up or put down some freight, and then we sight Lulu
Island, where we are to stay as the guests of Mr. Clay for a day or two.
Hullo! there he is! That tall fellow in a flannel shirt and blue
trousers. Oh no, it isn't--it's another Englishman; but among the
multitude of Chinese one Englishman looks very like another! This man
greets us as we get off at the pier, and says that Mr. Clay is expecting
us, and he pilots us into a great shed at the end of the pier. My word,
what a sight! There are thousands and thousands of salmon lying on every
square foot of floor, and not only covering it, but covering it
knee-deep, as they are piled one on the other. There are Chinamen wading
about among them, and every minute fresh boats arrive at the wharf with
their cargoes, and the men in them throw up the fish to the other men on
the wharf. The salmon we see here, our new acquaintance tells us, are
called "sock-eye," and weigh about ten pounds each. The great rush comes
every fourth year, one of which was 1913, when about thirteen million
fish were caught in the season. The men in the boats are Japs; we feel
quite friendly toward them. Mixed with them are some others with rather
Eastern faces too, but quite different from anything we have seen yet.
Notice their greasy straight hair, their flat, broad, good-humoured
faces and little stocky figures; what race do you think they are?
Esquimaux? That is not a bad shot; they are very like the pictures one
sees of Esquimaux, but these fellows are Siwash Indians, who live along
the coast hereabouts. Here is Mr. Clay, who has been watching the
reckoning of the caught fish. He is dressed exactly like the man who met
us, and a useful working dress it is too. He greets us with the greatest
hospitality and says he'll take us right up to his house for breakfast
first, as we must be starved, and we can see all we want to afterwards.
When we are clear of the sheds we see a long, low, wooden building
standing by itself; to reach it we have to pass over several wooden
platforms raised on legs. These, Mr. Clay explains, are necessary,
because in winter the whole island is pretty well under water. As we
cross the verandah we are warmly welcomed by Mrs. Clay, and taken into a
charming wooden room in the middle of the house, on to which all the
other rooms open. Here is laid out a splendid home breakfast of bacon
and eggs and porridge, and after a wash it do