ortherly
posts, and the agent was proud of them. This was the same agent whose
dogs ran away to chum with the wolves, and I believe these were some
of the same dogs. They were splendid animals in harness, well broken
and tireless travelers on the trail.

One evening, late in the fall, the agent's wife was standing at the
open door of the post house, and her little boy, a lad of about your
years, was playing near the doorstep.

Labrador dogs are fed but once a day, and this is always in the
evening. It was feeding time for the dogs, and a servant down at the
feed house, where the dog rations were kept, called them. With a rush
they responded. Just when some of them were passing the post house the
little boy in his play stumbled and fell. In an instant the dogs were
upon him. The mother, with rare presence of mind, sprang forward,
seized the boy, sprang back into the house and slammed the door upon
the dogs.

The boy was on the ground but a moment, but in that moment he was
horribly torn by the sharp fangs. At one place his entrails were laid
bare. There were over sixty wounds on his little body. The dogs lapped
up the blood that fell upon the ground and doorstep. That night the
pack, like a pack of hungry wolves, congregated outside the window
where they heard the child crying and moaning with pain and all night
howled as wolves howl when they have cornered prey.

The following morning it happened providentially that Doctor
Grenfell's hospital ship steamed into Cartwright Harbor and dropped
anchor. The Doctor himself was aboard. He took the boy under his
charge and the little one's life was saved through his skill.

After the attack the dogs became extremely aggressive and surly. They
were like a pack of fierce wolves. No one about the place was safe,
and the agent was compelled to shoot every animal in defense of human
life. Usually in Labrador when dogs are guilty of attacking people
they are hung by the neck to a gibbet until dead, and left hanging for
several days. I have seen dogs thus hanging after execution.

When I left Davis Inlet Post of the Hudson's Bay Company with my dog
team one cold winter morning, a native trapper told me that he would
follow later in the day and probably overtake me at the Moravian
Mission Station at Hopedale. We made half the journey to Hopedale that
night and spent the night in a native cabin. A storm was threatening
the next morning, but, nevertheless, we set forward. Shortly a