isolated station in northern Labrador. This journey would be too
hazardous to undertake in the month of October in a canoe--the rough,
open sea of Ungava Bay demanded a larger craft--and although Ford told
me it was foolhardy to attempt it so late in the season with any craft
at all, I requested him to do his utmost the following day to engage
for us Eskimos and a small boat and we would make the attempt to get
there. It has been my experience that frontier traders are wont to
overestimate the dangers in trips of this kind, and I was inclined to
the belief that this was the case with Ford. In due time I learned my
mistake.

Ford had no tobacco but the soggy black chewing plug dispensed to
Eskimos, and we shared with him our remaining plugs and for two hours
sat in the cozy Post house kitchen smoking and chatting. Over a year
had passed since his last communication with the outside world, for no
vessel other than the _Pelican_ when she makes her annual call with
supplies ever comes here, and we therefore had some things of interest
to tell him.

Our host I soon discovered to be a man of intelligence. He was sixty-
six years of age, a native of the east coast of Labrador, with a tinge
of Eskimo blood in his veins, and as familiar with the Eskimo language
as with English. For twenty years, he informed me, with the exception
of one or two brief intervals, he had been buried at George River
Post, and was longing for the time when he could leave it and enjoy
the comforts of civilization.

After our chat we were shown to our room, where the almost forgotten
luxuries of feather beds and pillows, and the great, warm, fluffy
woolen blankets of the Hudson's Bay Company--such blankets as are