McPherson asked:
"That was Sishetakushin's crowd you came with, wasn't it?"
"Yes, sir," Bob answered.
"Where did you hail from? It's something new to see a white man come
out of the bush with the Indians."
"From Eskimo Bay, sir, an' what place may this be?"
"Eskimo Bay! Eskimo Bay! Why, this is Ungava! How in the world did you
ever get across the country? What's your name?"
"My name's Bob Gray, sir, an' I lives at Wolf Bight." Then Bob went
on, prompted now and again by the factor's questions, to tell the
story of his adventures.
"Well," said Mr. MacPherson, "you've had a wonderful escape from
freezing and death and a remarkable experience. You'd better go over
to the men's house and they'll put you up there. Come back after
you've had dinner and we'll talk your case over. The dinner bell is
ringing now," he added, as the big bell began to clang. "Perhaps I'd
better go over with you and show you the way."
The men's house, as the servants' quarters were called, was a
one-story log house but a few steps from the office. As Bob and Mr.
MacPherson entered it, a big man with a bushy red beard, and a tall
brawny man with clean shaven face, both perhaps twenty-five or thirty
years of age, and both with "Scot" written all over their
countenances, were in the act of sitting down to an uncovered table,
while an ugly old Indian hag was dishing up a savory stew of
ptarmigan.
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