“We’ve got gold,” Joe continued, “and we’ve got grit,—at least some of mine’s left, though not much, but what we haven’t got is grub. Seems to me the next thing to look out for is something to eat. The gold will wait a day for us, but there is something inside me that says the other won’t. We’d better go prospecting for food this time.” Harry put his hand on his stomach. “Joe,” he said, “I declare you are right. You generally are. Fact is, I was so crazy over this yellow stuff in the handkerchief that I had forgotten everything else. We’ll hunt to-day.” They made a sorry breakfast of some heavy cakes made from the last of the spoiled flour, then took their rifles and went down toward the sea. The cakes were heavy within them, but their hearts were light. They ranged through a little gully seaward and to the east, seeking for ptarmigans but finding none. They might have hunted for the other two up at Ptarmigan Bend, but each felt that it would not do. The moment they sighted the diggings it was probable that they would fall to mining again, and they knew this and kept away. Through the gully they reached the shore, a narrow strip of pebbly beach at the foot of rough cliffs, and here in long rows, sitting on their eggs on the narrow ledges, they found scores of puffins. They are stupid little fellows, sitting bolt upright on greenish, blotched eggs that are not unlike those of the crow, but larger. The flesh of the puffin is not bad eating when one is hungry, and the boys found these so tame that they hardly flew at a rifle-shot. In half an hour they had a dozen, and tramped back to camp, well satisfied that they need not starve. By the time two birds were cooked and eaten the sun was behind the cliffs, and the gray of the Arctic midnight was over all. They sprang to their feet refreshed and about to plan to resume digging, when Joe held up his hand with a look of consternation on his face. A long unheard but familiar sound came to the ears of both boys, and Harry’s face reflected the dismay that was in Joe’s. The sound was the rhythmic click of oars in rowlocks, and it came up the placid waters of the inlet from the sea. A few days before, how gladly they would have heard that sound. Oars in rowlocks meant white men. Eskimos and Indians paddle. Each stepped to his rifle and saw that it was loaded, and then they stood ready to defend their claim against all comers. So quickly does a white man distrust another when there is gold at stake. A moment, and a boat came round the bend, a rude boat, built of rough boards and well loaded, but with only one occupant. This seemed to be an oldish man, a white man, roughly dressed. He rowed steadily but wearily, without looking up. By and by the bow of the boat struck the beach not far away, and the man turned his head over his shoulder toward the bow and seemed to speak to the air. Then he nodded his head, stepped out, drew his boat up a little, and came toward them.