ur broken leg. We shall not carry you from
here unless you pay the money. Is that not so?"

He turned to the others, who had not said one word all this while:
they had been merely looking on and listening.

"Yes," they said. "He has spoken for us all. As he has said, we shall
do. You shall be left here, if you do not pay."

"The Great Spirit has given you into our hands," the Chief declared.
"When you came to us this summer again, we said among ourselves that
he had sent you. We did not know that he would cause you to break your
leg. We were going to keep you even if this had not happened. Now the
Great Spirit has caused this hurt to happen to you. We see, by this,
that we were not mistaken. He sent you to us as surely as he sends the
fish or the deer when we have need of food. It is for you to choose,
if you will pay, and go on with us to the coast--or refuse to pay and
be left here in the wilderness to die."

So Cabot had to sign a promise to pay them the $700 for a great rascal
whose name neither he nor those Indians will ever know.

They made a stretcher and put him on it, and carried him with them out
to the coast.

If they had not done so--his white bones would now be bleaching beside
the cold embers of a camp-fire in the desolate interior of Labrador.

Do you blame those Indians for wanting to "take it out" of the first
member they met, of a race that bred such a rogue as the man who
cheated them?

Dr. Grenfell tells us that for about two hundred years the Eskimo of
the interior and the Indians of the coast were at war with one
another. There was a battle, long, long ago, in which Indians killed a
thousand Eskimo.

But nowadays when the Eskimo and Indians come together they have no
quarrel.

There was such a meeting at Nain in 1910. It was the first time the
Eskimo had ever seen Indians in that tiny fishing-village, and they
"ran about in circles" in their excitement.

It was on a Sunday afternoon when the Indians appeared. They had come
down a stream from the interior, and when they rounded the bend in
their boats--of a kind that was strange to the Eskimo--the latter set
up a cackle like that of a barnyard when a hawk appears.

The Indians, with their bundles on their shoulders, filed ashore, made
their way to a hut the kindly Moravian missionary let them use, and
sat in muddy, weary silence round the walls.

The Eskimo crowded into the doorway, their tongues hanging out,
staring at these queer