It is but the work of a few minutes for the dog team (which had been driven away back from the hole as soon as it was discovered), to come racing up. A shout summons every other hunter within sight, and quicker than it takes to tell, there is a concourse of fur-clad figures, the seal is cut open, and a rib, dripping with the fresh, hot blood, is presented to each by way of an invigorating snack. The carcase is soon skewered together again by means of the long ivory pins carried by the hunter, and loaded on to the sled, when the successful “outfit,” bidding a cheery adieu to the others, strikes off then and there for home, rejoicing in the thought of fresh supplies of meat and blubber, and another skin added to the family stores. When the sealing season fully sets in, sealing camps are formed far out on the ice at sea, over the sealing grounds, and thither the younger half of the entire Eskimo community resorts for a month or more. A new, roughly fashioned, temporary village quickly springs up, and all the usual household goods are installed in readiness for the season’s work on the spot. The camp igloos are much smaller and less ambitious dwellings than those on shore, their sole object being to provide a few weeks’ shelter. There is none of the home life of the permanent village. The men and boys are away all day long, and the women spend all their time preparing and drying the skins and keeping the cooking pot going. Water is obtained either from the snow lying deep on the surface of the ice, or from ice from the nearest berg. From early morning till late at night the camp resounds with the crack of whips, the shouts of the dog-team drivers, the gruff voices of men and the shrill voices of boys, as they drive hither and thither, quartering the expanse of the sealing grounds in search of the blow holes. Every foot of the way is closely scanned. Suddenly a deep “Ugh!” from the hunter announces the saucer-like depression in the snow which tells him that a seal cavern is beneath. Here and there a solitary sportsman with but one dog on a long line sets out on his own, over the sealing ground. He trudges observantly along, urging the dog to ferret about and pick up the scent of the quarry beneath the snow. “White Fang,” nothing loth, sets all his sharp, trained wits to work, and presently starts snuffling and scratching, like any terrier at a rat hole, and the hunter knows he has come upon his prey.