It was like an avalanche. Dr. Grenfell was swept off his legs, as if he had been bathing in the surf and a big wave rushed up and knocked him down. The boldest jumped up on the stove, where the stewpot was, that sent out such a delicious smell. He pried off the cover, and then the pot rolled off the stove with a terrible clatter, and its steaming contents were dumped out on the floor. You could fairly hear those beasts screaming "That's mine! Get out of there! That belongs to me!" Just like greedy, quarrelsome boys that forgot their manners long ago, if they ever had any. They fought with added fury because--the hot stew burned their noses. They were in such a hurry they couldn't wait for it to cool. They snuffled and scuffled, they bit and snarled and snorted, as they had done in the church with the hymn-books and then with the cabbages in the vegetable garden. One of the dogs thrust his head in the pot to get the last "lickings" and then he couldn't shake it loose again. Round and round the room he banged and struggled, till the Doctor took pity on him and hauled it off his head. Meanwhile the house filled with steam as if it were on fire. The Eskimos came rushing from everywhere, with shouts in their own tongue that sounded almost like the cries of the dogs. They had long harpoon handles, and they pranced about the room, thwacking right and left. The Doctor was entirely forgotten. So was the sick man. The room was filled with steam, stew, dogs, harpoons, and blue language. At last the dogs were shoved out, and the door was slammed after them. "How are you feeling?" said the Doctor to his patient. "B-b-better, Doctor. It was a funny show while it lasted. But I guess they ain't much left o' that there stew, is there?" The Doctor laughed. "No--our dinner is wrecked. A total loss!" The door opened slowly. Long Jim stood there in the doorway, fumbling his hat in his hand. "Awful sorry about them dogs, Doctor," he muttered. "They just seem to ha' gone clean crazy. They ain't had nothin' to eat for so long, you see. They're good dogs when they ain't hungry. Would you--would you lend me the money to pay for them hymn-books an' cabbages an' the stew till I can pay ye back?" "Oh, that's all right, Jim!" answered the Doctor. "All told, the damage won't amount to much. I'll fix it up. Dogs will be dogs." "Thank ye, Doctor," said Jim, simply. But he was deeply grateful. He went out after his dogs to make them quit rampaging and take their places in the team. "Doctor," said the sick man, "I minds me o' the time one o' them missionaries put a young dog in the team ahead o' the old leader. Did ye ever hear tell o' that?" "No. What happened?" "Well, the big feller bit through the little feller's traces an' then must 'a' said 'you get out o' here!' the way one dog knows how to talk to another. 'Cause the pup he began to run away, before they'd got the sled started at all." "And then what?" asked Grenfell.