"Charlie, what do you suppose are Skroelings?"
"Never heard of 'em before. They sound like a new kind of
seagull. What a chap you are for asking questions!" he replied.
"I have to go to the cashier of the Omnibus Company yonder. Will
you wait for me and we can lunch somewhere together? I've a
notion for a poem."
"No, thanks. I'm off. You're sure you know nothing about
Skroelings?"
"Not unless he's been entered for the Liverpool Handicap." He
nodded and disappeared in the crowd.
Now it is written in the Saga of Eric the Red or that of Thorfin
Karlsefne, that nine hundred years ago when Karlsefne's galleys
came to Leif's booths, which Leif had erected in the unknown
land called Markland, which may or may not have been Rhode
Island, the Skroelings--and the Lord He knows who these may or
may not have been--came to trade with the Vikings, and ran away
because they were frightened at the bellowing of the cattle which
Thorfin had brought with him in the ships. But what in the world
could a Greek slave know of that affair? I wandered up and down
among the streets trying to unravel the mystery, and the more I
considered it, the more baffling it grew.
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