e men, the oldest, and
for this reason having chief authority, draws near and commences patting
Seagriff on the chest and back alternately, all the while giving
utterance to a gurgling, "chucking" noise that sounds somewhat like the
cluck of a hen when feeding her chicks.

Having finished with the old sealer, who has reciprocated his quaint
mode of salutation, he extends it to the other three whites, one after
the other. But as he sees "the doctor," who, at the moment, has stepped
from within the wigwam, where he had been unperceived, there is a sudden
revulsion of feeling among the savages--a return to hostility, the
antipathy of all Fuegians to the African negro being proverbially
bitter. Strange and unaccountable is this prejudice against the negro
by a people almost the lowest in humanity's scale.

"_Ical shiloke! Uftucla_!" ("Kill the black dog!") they cry out in
spiteful chorus, half a dozen of them making a dash at him.

Seagriff throws himself in front, to shield him from their fury, and,
with arms uplifted, appealingly calls out, "_Ical shiloke--zapello_!"
("The black dog is but a slave.")

At this the old man makes a sign, as if saying the _zapello_ is not
worth their anger, and they retire, but reluctantly, like wolves forced
from their prey. Then, as if by way of appeasing their spite, they go
stalking about the camp, picking up and secreting such articles as tempt
their cupidity.

Fortunately, few things of any value have been left exposed, the tools
and other highly-prized chattels having been stowed away inside the
tent. Luckily, also, they had hastily carried into it some dried fungus
and fish cured by the smoking process, intended for boat stores. But
Caesar's outside larder suffers to depletion. In a trice it is
emptied--not a scrap being left by the prowling pilferers. And
everything, as soon as appropriated, is eaten raw, just as it is found--
seal's flesh, shell-fish, beech-apples, berries, everything! Even a
large squid, a hideous-looking monster of the octopus tribe thrown on
the beach near by, is gobbled up by them as though it were the greatest
of delicacies.

Hunger--ravenous, unappeasable hunger--seems to pervade the whole crew;
no doubt the fact that the weather has been for a long time very stormy
has interfered with their fishing, and otherwise hindered their
procuring food. Like all savages, the Fuegian is improvident--more so,
even, than some of the brute creation--and r