Red Rooney: The Last of the Crew. Robert Michael Ballantyne

one; I like the walrus better. It’s like yourself—tender.”

      The fair Nunaga fell into a tremendous giggle at this joke, for although our hero’s Eskimo was not very perfect, he possessed all an Irishman’s capacity for making his meaning understood, more or less; and truly it was a sight to behold the varied expressions of face—the childlike surprise, admiration, curiosity, and something approaching to awe—with which those unsophisticated natives received the explanation of the different parts of that clasp-knife!

      “But what did we begin our talk about?” he continued, as he tackled the walrus. “O yes; it was about our garments. Well, besides using different kinds of cloths, our coats are of many different shapes: we have short coats called jackets, and long coats, and coats with tails behind—”

      “Do your men wear tails behind?” asked Angut, in surprise.

      “Yes; two tails,” replied Rooney, “and two buttons above them.”

      “Strange,” remarked Angut; “it is only our women who have tails; and they have only one tail each, with one button in front—not behind—to fasten the end of the tail to when on a journey.”

      “Women with tails look very well,” remarked Okiok, “especially when they swing them about in a neat way that I know well but cannot describe. But men with tails must look very funny.”

      Here Mrs Okiok ventured to ask how the Kablunet women dressed.

      “Well, it’s not easy to describe that to folk who have never seen them,” said the sailor, with a slight grin. “In the first place, they don’t wear boots the whole length of their legs like you, Nuna.”

      “Surely, then,” remarked the hostess, “their legs must be cold?”

      “By no means, for they cover ’em well up with loose flapping garments, extending from the waist all the way down to the feet. Then they don’t wear hoods like you, but stick queer things on their heads, of all shapes and sizes—sometimes of no shape at all and very small size—which they cover over with feathers, an’ flowers, an’ fluttering things of all colours, besides lots of other gimcracks.”

      How Rooney rendered “gimcracks” into Eskimo we are not prepared to say, but the whole description sent Nunaga and her mother into fits of giggling, for those simple-minded creatures of the icy north—unlike sedate Europeans—are easily made to laugh.

      At this point Angut struck in again, for he felt that the conversation was becoming frivolous.

      “Tell me, Kablunet,” he began; but Rooney interrupted him.

      “Don’t call me Kablunet. Call me Red Rooney. It will be more friendly-like, and will remind me of my poor shipmates.”

      “Then tell me, Ridroonee,” said Angut, “is it true what I have heard, that your countrymen can make marks on flat white stuff, like the thin skin of the duck, which will tell men far away what they are thinking about?”

      “Ay, that’s true enough,” replied the sailor, with an easy smile of patronage; “we call it writing.”

      A look of grave perplexity rested on the visage of the Eskimo.

      “It’s quite easy when you understand it, and know how to do it,” continued Rooney; “nothing easier.”

      A humorous look chased away the Eskimo’s perplexity as he replied—

      “Everything is easy when you understand it.”

      “Ha! you have me there, Angut,” laughed the sailor; “you’re a ’cute fellow, as the Yankees say. But come, I’ll try to show you how easy it is. See here.” He pulled a small note-book from his pocket, and drew thereon the picture of a walrus. “Now, you understand that, don’t you?”

      “Yes; we draw like that, and understand each other.”

      “Well, then, we put down for that w-a-l-r-u-s; and there you have it—walrus; nothing simpler!”

      The perplexed look returned, and Angut said—

      “That is not very easy to understand. Yet I see something—always the same marks for the same beast; other marks for other beasts?”

      “Just so. You’ve hit it!” exclaimed Rooney, quite pleased with the intelligence of his pupil.

      “But how if it is not a beast?” asked the Eskimo. “How if you cannot see him at all, yet want to tell of him in—in—what did you say—writing? I want to send marks to my mother to say that I have talked with my torngak. How do you mark torngak? I never saw him. No man ever saw a torngak. And how do you make marks for cold, for wind, for all our thoughts, and for the light?”

      It was now Red Rooney’s turn to look perplexed. He knew that writing was easy enough to him who understands it, and he felt that there must be some method of explaining the matter, but how to go about the explanation to one so utterly ignorant did not at once occur to him. We have seen, however, that Rooney was a resolute man, not to be easily baffled. After a few moments’ thought he said—

      “Look here now, Angut. Your people can count?”

      “Yes; they can go up to twenty. I can go a little further, but most of the Innuits get confused in mind beyond twenty, because they have only ten fingers and ten toes to look at.”

      “Well now,” continued Rooney, holding up his left hand, with the fingers extended, “that’s five.”

      Yes, Angut understood that well.

      “Well, then,” resumed Rooney, jotting down the figure 5, “there you have it—five. Any boy at school could tell you what that is.”

      The Eskimo pondered deeply and stared. The other Eskimos did the same.

      “But what,” asked Okiok, “if a boy should say that it was six, and not five?”

      “Why, then we’d whack him, and he’d never say that again.”

      There was an explosion of laughter at this, for Eskimos are tender and indulgent to their children, and seldom or never whack them.

      It would be tedious to go further into this subject, or to describe the ingenious methods by which the seaman sought to break up the fallow ground of Angut’s eminently receptive mind. Suffice it to say that Rooney made the discovery that the possession of knowledge is one thing, and the power to communicate it another and a very different thing. Angut also came to the conclusion that, ignorant as he had thought himself to be, his first talk with the Kablunet had proved him to be immeasurably more ignorant than he had supposed.

      The sailor marked the depression which was caused by this piece of knowledge, and set himself good-naturedly to counteract the evil by displaying his watch, at sight of which there was a wild exclamation of surprise and delight from all except Angut, who, however deep his feelings might be, always kept them bridled. The expansion of his nostrils and glitter of his eyes, however, told their tale, though no exclamation passed his lips.

      Once or twice, when Rooney attempted to explain the use of the instrument, the inquisitive man was almost irresistibly led to put some leading questions as to the nature of Time; but whenever he observed this tendency, the sailor, thinking that he had given him quite enough of philosophy for one evening, adroitly turned him off the scent by drawing particular attention to some other portion of the timepiece.

      The watch and the knife, to which they reverted later on, kept the lecturer and audience going till late in the evening, by which time our sailor had completely won the hearts of the Eskimos, and they had all become again so hungry that Okiok gave a hint to his wife to stir up the lamp and prepare supper. Then, with a sigh of relief, they all allowed their strained minds to relax, and the conversation took a more general turn. It is but fair to add that, as the sailor had won the hearts of the natives, so his heart had been effectually enthralled by them. For Angut, in particular, Rooney felt that powerful attraction which is the result of similar tastes, mutual sympathies, and diversity of character. Rooney had a strong tendency to explain and teach; Angut a stronger tendency to listen and learn. The former was impulsive and hasty; the latter meditative and patient. Rooney was