lmost uncanny quickness, each man's uses from the Kaviak point of
view. The only person he wasn't sworn friends with was the handy-man,
and there came to be a legend current in the camp, that Kaviak's first
attempt at spontaneously stringing a sentence under that roof was, "Me
got no use for Potts."

The best thing about Kaviak was that his was no craven soul. He was
obliged to steal the sugar because he lived with white people who were
bigger than he, and who always took it away when they caught him. But
once the sugar was safe under his shirt, he owned up without the
smallest hesitation, and took his smacking like a man. For the rest, he
flourished, filled out, and got as fat as a seal, but never a whit less
solemn.

One morning the Colonel announced that now the days had grown so short,
and the Trio were so late coming to breakfast, and nobody did any work
to speak of, it would be a good plan to have only two meals a day.

The motion was excessively unpopular, but it was carried by a plain,
and somewhat alarming, exposition of the state of supplies.

"We oughtn't to need as much food when we lazy round the fire all day,"
said the Colonel. But Potts retorted that they'd need a lot more if
they went on adoptin' the aborigines.

They knocked off supper, and all but the aborigine knew what it meant
sometimes to go hungry to bed.

Towards the end of dinner one day late in December, when everybody else
had finished except for coffee and pipe, the aborigine held up his
empty plate.

"Haven't you had enough?" asked the Colonel mildly, surprised at
Kaviak's bottomless capacity.

"Maw." Still the plate was extended.

"There isn't a drop of syrup left," said Potts, who had drained the
can, and even wiped it out carefully with halves of hot biscuit.

"He don't really want it."

"Mustn't open a fresh can till to-morrow."

"No, sir_ee_. We've only got--"

"Besides, he'll bust."

Kaviak meanwhile, during this paltry discussion, had stood up on the
high stool "Farva" had made for him, and personally inspected the big
mush-pot. Then he turned to Mac, and, pointing a finger like a straw
(nothing could fatten those infinitesimal hands), he said gravely and
fluently:

"Maw in de plenty-bowl."

"Yes, maw mush, but no maw syrup."

The round eyes travelled to the store corner.

"We'll have to open a fresh can some time--what's the odds?"

Mac got up, and not only Kaviak watched him--for syrup was a luxury not
expe