"Where you come from?" asked the former tender of the still.

"East Cape."

"Where you go?"

"Cape Prince of Wales."

"Puck-mum-ie?" (Now?) The man betrayed his anxiety.

"Canak-ti-ma-na" (I don't know), said Johnny seating himself on the
table and allowing his glance to sweep the place from corner to corner.
"I don't know," he repeated, slowly. "How are you all anyway?"

"Ti-ma-na" (Not so bad), answered the spokesman.

Johnny was enjoying himself. He was exactly in the position of some good
motherly soul who held a pumpkin pie before the eyes of several hungry
boys. The only difference was that the pie Johnny was thinking of was
raw, so exceeding raw that it would turn these natives into wild men. So
Johnny decided that, like as not, he wouldn't let them have it at all.

Johnny enjoyed the situation nevertheless. He was mighty unpopular at
that moment, he knew, but his unpopularity now was nothing to what it
would be in a very short time. Thinking of this, he measured the
distance to the door very carefully with his eye.

At last, when it became evident that if he didn't move someone else
would, he turned to the still manager and said: