With all the work, the voyage was one of pleasure. Not only the
pleasure of making others happier,--the greatest pleasure any one can
know,--but it was a rattling fine adventure finding the way among
islands that had never appeared on any map and were still unnamed. It
was fine fun, too, cruising deep and magnificent fjords past lofty
towering cliffs, and exploring new channels. And there were the
Eskimos and their great wolfish dogs, and their primitive manner of
living and dressing. It was all interesting and fascinating.
Never, however, since that August night in Domino Run, had the little
mud hut, the dying man, the grief-stricken, miserable mother, and the
neglected and starving little ones been out of Doctor Grenfell's
thoughts, and often enough his big heart had ached for the stricken
ones. He had never before witnessed such awful depths of poverty.
In other harbors that he had visited in his northern voyage similar
heartrending cases had, to be sure, fallen under his attention. In one
harbor he found a poor Eskimo both of whose hands had been blown off
by the premature discharge of a gun.
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