The steamer, like a huge shuttle, wove in and out among the
countless small islands; its long trailing scarf of grey smoke
hung heavily along the uncertain shores, casting a shadow over the
pearly waters of the Pacific, which swung lazily from rock to rock
in indescribable beauty.
After dinner I wandered astern with the traveller's ever-present
hope of seeing the beauties of a typical Northern sunset, and by
some happy chance I placed my deck-stool near an old tillicum, who
was leaning on the rail, his pipe between his thin, curved lips, his
brown hands clasped idly, his sombre eyes looking far out to sea,
as though they searched the future--or was it that they were seeing
the past?
"Kla-how-ya, tillicum!" I greeted.
He glanced round, and half smiled.
"Kla-how-ya, tillicum!" he replied, with the warmth of friendliness
I have always met with among the Pacific tribes.
I drew my deck-stool nearer to him, and he acknowledged the action
with another half smile, but did not stir from his entrenchment,
remaining as if hedged about with an inviolable fortress of
exclusiveness. Yet I knew that my Chinook salutation would be a
drawbridge by which I might hope to cross the moat into his castle
of silence.
Indian-like, he took his time before continuing the acquaintance.
Then he began in most excellent English:
"You do not know these northern waters?"