Few of the men could speak or understand the Indian tongue, and few of the Indians could understand English. Vociferous explanations were as futile as were the half-hearted, wondering protests of the Indians as their children were seized, wrapped warmly in the first blanket or robe that came to hand, and carried screaming and fighting out into the sub-Arctic night. Only slightly reassured by the laughter and evident good intentions of the invaders, the parents hastily arrayed themselves in their outer garb and followed as rapidly as they could, being guided through the darkness by the howls and screeches of their kidnapped offspring. A stoic your Indian unquestionably is under adversity, and much of his life is lived under adverse conditions, but the stoicism does not begin at the cradle, or more appropriately, at the moss bag, nor yet does it begin in early youth, as the men of the Yukon learned, when they unceremoniously dumped their squirming, squalling burdens upon the dance hall floor. And the dancing girls learned it also, as in vain they tried to quiet the little savages, and to bring about some sort of order from the chaos of blankets and robes and screaming babies and fighting children. In fact, they even added their bit to the general din: “O-w-ow! You little devil! Look out, girls! They bite like a malamute pup!” It was Horse Face Joe that finally solved the problem, as seating himself at the piano, he struck up a rollicking air that stilled most of the voices in wonder, and drowned those it did not still--Horse Face, and the arrival of the Indian parents, who quickly reclaimed blankets and offspring, and huddling at the farther end of the room, listened to the music in dumb fascination. It was nearly ten o’clock when the last cabin had been searched and the last protesting child deposited upon the floor. Gordon, with his wife and little girl, occupied seats of honor near the piano, and Burr MacShane, through an interpreter, who had been discovered among the Indians, stepped onto the floor and endeavored to explain what it was all about. Then Horse Face Joe struck up an old melody, someone started the words, half familiar, half forgotten, others joined in, and before they knew it every white man and woman in the hall was singing as they had never sung before. Louder and louder swelled the mighty volume of sound until it overrolled and drowned the voice of the piano. Reaching swiftly down, MacShane picked up little Lou Gordon and stood her upon the top of the instrument. Men and girls naturally gravitated toward the music and soon Horse Face Joe and his beloved piano with the little girl standing on its top like a queen looking down with shining eyes into the upturned faces of her subjects, were the centre of a close standing group.