COPYRIGHT PHOTO

At night the patrol camped in an hastily erected snow igloo. At times terrific blizzards
confined them for days within the snowhouse.

Places—Corporal Bill Doak of the
Royal Canadian Mounted Police, his
genial countenance beaming with de-
light. “Hit it lucky,” grinned the
irrepressible Doak as I led him to
my private cabin on the Texas deck.
“Going back amongst the Huskies.
I’m through playing poker and
reading the riot act to those copper-
skinned Nitchies around here. I’m
leaving this God-forsaken hole for
Coronation Gulf.”

“What's doing?” I handed him the
bottle of Old Buck rum.

“Just another family rumpus about
1,000 miles east of Herschel Island.
A couple of Cogmollocks have been
precipitated out of this vale of tears
by a young Huskie named Aligoo-
miak. And,” he grinned happily,
“yours truly’s been assigned the job
of arresting the fire-eating youngster
and his esteemed uncle and bringing
them back to Herschel Island for
trial.”

Good Time at White Man’s Expense

“It’s just what I expected, how-
ever.” The Corporal turned suddenly
serious as he tossed down a shot of
fiery rum. “Ever since Sinissiak and
Uluksuk, the Huskies who murdered
those two priests and ate their livers,
were given that joy-ride to Calgary;
shown the bright lights and picture
shows, and given two years at
Herschel Island as Mounted Police
interpreters, I’ve expected trouble.
Ever since they returned to their
people with trunk-loads of white
man’s clothes, rifles and ammunition
they've become ‘big shots’ amongst
the Cogmollocks. Now,” he growled,
“those Huskies seem to think all
they've got to do, if they want a good
time at the white man’s expense, is
to stick a snow-knife into someone’s
gizzard.”

TWENTY-SIXTH EDITION

“How well I was to remember
those words of Bill Doak’s!

“Theyre a tough bunch, those
Cogmollocks,” interjected D’Arcy
Arden, the trader from Great Bear
Lake. “They'd stick a knife in your
back as fast as look at you if you get
“em peeved. Take my advice, Bill, and
watch your step!”

As the steamer’s siren shrilled its
warning blast I shook hands with
Bill. “Good luck!” I laughed, then
voiced the Northerner’s farewell to
anyone leaving for the country of the
bloodthirsty Cogmollocks. “See the
Cogmollocks don’t eat your liver!”

Bill Doak emitted a _ throaty
chuckle. His last whimsical words
were drowned in the resonant blast
of the siren, and the bedlam of
whoops from Indians lining the
shore as the red-painted paddle-
wheel commenced to revolve.

Two weeks later Bill reached the
mouth of the Mackenzie River
aboard the Northland Trader and
embarked on an Eskimo schooner for
Herschel Island where he reported to
Inspector Stuart T. Wood.

Stop Those Eskimo Killings

“We've got to put a stop to those
Eskimo killings,” the inspector told
him grimly. “Proceed to Coronation
Gulf by the Hudson’s Bay’s supply
ship, which will be leaving shortly
Continue on to the Cogmollock vil-
lage at Kent Peninsula by dog-team

W. C. C. (BILL) BOYD, Mgr.
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