Opee-Kwan demanded， half of himself and half of histribespeople. “We are， and in a breath we are not. If theman may become shadow， may not the shadow becomeman？ Nam-Bok was， but is not. This we know， but we donot know if this be Nam-Bok or the shadow of Nam-Bok.”
Nam-Bok cleared his throat and made answer. “In theold time long ago， thy father’s father， Opee-Kwan， wentaway and came back on the heels of the years. Nor wasa place by the fire denied him. It is said ...” He pausedsignificantly， and they hung on his utterance. “It is said，”
he repeated， driving his point home with deliberation，“that Sipsip， his klooch， bore him two sons after he cameback.”
“But he had no doings with the off-shore wind，” Opee-Kwan retorted. “He went away into the heart of the land，and it is in the nature of things that a man may go on andon into the land.”
“And likewise the sea. But that is neither here nor there.
It is said . . . that thy father’s father told strange tales ofthe things he saw.”
“Ay， strange tales he told.”
“I， too， have strange tales to tell，” Nam-Bok statedinsidiously. And， as they wavered， “And presents likewise.”
He pulled from the bidarka a shawl， marvellous of textureand color， and flung it about his mother’s shoulders. Thewomen voiced a collective sigh of admiration， and oldBask-Wah-Wan ruffled the gay material and patted it andcrooned in childish joy.
“He has tales to tell，” Koogah muttered. “And presents，”
a woman seconded.
And Opee-Kwan knew that his people were eager，and further， he was aware himself of an itching curiosityconcerning those untold tales. “The fishing has beengood，” he said judiciously， “and we have oil in plenty. Socome， Nam-Bok， let us feast.”
Two of the men hoisted the bidarka on their shouldersand carried it up to the fire. Nam-Bok walked by the sideof Opee-Kwan， and the villagers followed after， save thoseof the women who lingered a moment to lay caressingfingers on the shawl.
There was little talk while the feast went on， thoughmany and curious were the glances stolen at the son ofBask-Wah-Wan. This embarrassed him—not because hewas modest of spirit， however， but for the fact that thestench of the seal-oil had robbed him of his appetite， andthat he keenly desired to conceal his feelings on the subject.
“Eat； thou art hungry，” Opee-Kwan commanded， andNam-Bok shut both his eyes and shoved his fist into thebig pot of putrid fish.
“La la， be not ashamed. The seal were many this year，and strong men are ever hungry.” And Bask-Wah-Wansopped a particularly offensive chunk of salmon into theoil and passed it fondly and dripping to her son.
In despair， when premonitory symptoms warned himthat his stomach was not so strong as of old， he filled hispipe and struck up a smoke. The people fed on noisilyand watched. Few of them could boast of intimateacquaintance with the precious weed， though now andagain small quantities and abominable qualities wereobtained in trade from the Eskimos to the northward.
Koogah， sitting next to him， indicated that he was notaverse to taking a draw， and between two mouthfuls， withthe oil thick on his lips， sucked away at the amber stem.
And thereupon Nam-Bok held his stomach with a shakyhand and declined the proffered return. Koogah couldkeep the pipe， he said， for he had intended so to honorhim from the first. And the people licked their fingers andapproved of his liberality.
Opee-Kwan rose to his feet， “And now， O Nam-Bok， thefeast is ended， and we would listen concerning the strangethings you have seen.”
The fisherfolk applauded with their hands， and gatheringabout them their work， prepared to listen. The men werebusy fashioning spears and carving on ivory， while thewomen scraped the fat from the hides of the hair sealand made them pliable or sewed muclucs with threads ofsinew. Nam-Bok’s eyes roved over the scene， but there wasnot the charm about it that his recollection had warrantedhim to expect. During the years of his wandering he hadlooked forward to just this scene， and now that it hadcome he was disappointed. It was a bare and meagre life，he deemed， and not to be compared to the one to whichhe had become used. Still， he would open their eyes a bit，and his own eyes sparkled at the thought.
“Brothers，” he began， with the smug complacency ofa man about to relate the big things he has done， “it waslate summer of many summers back， with much suchweather as this promises to be， when I went away. Youall remember the day， when the gulls flew low， and thewind blew strong from the land， and I could not hold mybidarka against it. I tied the covering of the bidarka aboutme so that no water could get in， and all of the night Ifought with the storm. And in the morning there was noland， —only the sea， —and the off-shore wind held meclose in its arms and bore me along. Three such nightswhitened into dawn and showed me no land， and the offshorewind would not let me go.
“And when the fourth day came， I was as a madman. Icould not dip my paddle for want of food； and my headwent round and round， what of the thirst that was uponme. But the sea was no longer angry， and the soft southwind was blowing， and as I looked about me I saw a sightthat made me think I was indeed mad.”
Nam-Bok paused to pick away a sliver of salmon lodgedbetween his teeth， and the men and women， with idlehands and heads craned forward， waited.
“It was a canoe， a big canoe. If all the canoes I have everseen were made into one canoe， it would not be so large.”
There were exclamations of doubt， and Koogah， whoseyears were many， shook his head.
“If each bidarka were as a grain of sand，” Nam-Bokdefiantly continued， “and if there were as many bidarkasas there be grains of sand in this beach， still would theynot make so big a canoe as this I saw on the morning ofthe fourth day. It was a very big canoe， and it was calledaschooner. I saw this thing of wonder， this great schooner，coming after me， and on it I saw men—”
“Hold， O Nam-Bok！” Opee-Kwan broke in. “Whatmanner of men were they？ —big men？”
“Nay， mere men like you and me.”
