he harnessed dogs
yelled and foamed with excitement, and Kotuko laid the long lash like a
red-hot bar across all their faces, till the carcass froze stiff. Going
home was the heavy work. The loaded sleigh had to be humoured among the
rough ice, and the dogs sat down and looked hungrily at the seal instead
of pulling. At last they would strike the well-worn sleigh-road to the
village, and toodle-kiyi along the ringing ice, heads down and tails
up, while Kotuko struck up the "An-gutivaun tai-na tau-na-ne taina" (The
Song of the Returning Hunter), and voices hailed him from house to house
under all that dim, star-littern sky.

When Kotuko the dog came to his full growth he enjoyed himself too. He
fought his way up the team steadily, fight after fight, till one fine
evening, over their food, he tackled the big, black leader (Kotuko the
boy saw fair play), and made second dog of him, as they say. So he was
promoted to the long thong of the leading dog, running five feet in
advance of all the others: it was his bounden duty to stop all fighting,
in harness or out of it, and he wore a collar of copper wire, very thick
and heavy. On special occasions he was fed with cooked food inside the
house, and sometimes was allowed to sleep on the bench with Kotuko. He
was a good seal-dog, and would keep a musk-ox at bay by running round
him and snapping at his heels. He would even--and this for a sleigh-dog
is the last proof of bravery--he would even stand up to the gaunt Arctic
wolf, whom all dogs of the North, as a rule, fear beyond anything
that walks the snow. He and his master--they did not count the team of
ordinary dogs as company--hunted together, day after day and night
after night, fur-wrapped boy and savage, long-haired, narrow-eyed,
white-fanged, yellow brute. All an Inuit has to do is to get food and
skins for himself and his family. The women-folk make the skins into
clothing, and occasionally help in trapping small game; but the bulk
of the food--and they eat enormously--must be found by the men. If the
supply fails there is no one up there to buy or beg or borrow from. The
people must die.

An Inuit does not think of these chances till he is forced to. Kadlu,
Kotuko, Amoraq, and the boy-baby who kicked about in Amoraq's fur hood
and chewed pieces of blubber all day, were as happy together as any
family in the world. They came of a very gentle race--an Inuit seldom
loses his temper, and almost never strikes a child--who d