man is a clumsy man. He will never know how."

"It is Nam-Bok," old Bask-Wah-Wan repeated. "Should I not know my
son?" she demanded shrilly. "I say, and I say again, it is Nam-Bok."

"And so thou hast said these many summers," one of the women chided
softly. "Ever when the ice passed out of the sea hast thou sat and
watched through the long day, saying at each chance canoe, 'This is
Nam-Bok.' Nam-Bok is dead, O Bask-Wah-Wan, and the dead do not come
back. It cannot be that the dead come back."

"Nam-Bok!" the old woman cried, so loud and clear that the whole
village was startled and looked at her.

She struggled to her feet and tottered down the sand. She stumbled
over a baby lying in the sun, and the mother hushed its crying and
hurled harsh words after the old woman, who took no notice. The
children ran down the beach in advance of her, and as the man in the
bidarka drew closer, nearly capsizing with one of his ill-directed
strokes, the women followed. Koogah dropped his walrus tusk and went
also, leaning heavily upon his staff, and after him loitered the men
in twos and threes.

The bidarka turned broadside and the ripple of surf threatened to
swamp it, only a naked boy ran into the water and pulled the bow high
up on the sand. The man stood up and sent a questing glance along the
line of villagers. A rainbow sweater, dirty and the worse for wear,
clung loosely to his broad shoulders, and a red cotton handkerchief
was knotted in sailor fashion about his throat. A fisherman's
tam-o'-shanter on his close-clipped head, and dungaree trousers and