The White Man's Way Page #2

"The White Man's Way" is a novella by Jack London that explores themes of colonialism, race, and cultural clash. Set in the early 20th century, it follows the story of a white man who travels to the South Pacific and confronts the complexities of indigenous cultures in contrast to Western civilization. Through vivid storytelling, London critiques the moral implications of imperialism and examines the impacts of Western values on native societies. The narrative reflects London's characteristic blend of adventure and social commentary, highlighting the tensions between progress and preservation.

								

is tobacco of value. It is of very great value. The Indian gives one
large salmon for one leaf of tobacco, and he chews the tobacco for a
long time. It is the juice of the tobacco that is good. When it runs
down his throat it makes him feel good inside. But the white man! When
his mouth is full with the juice, what does he do? That juice, that
juice of great value, he spits it out in the snow and it is lost. Does
the white man like tobacco? I do not know. But if he likes tobacco,
why does he spit out its value and lose it in the snow? It is a great
foolishness and without understanding."

He ceased, puffed at the pipe, found that it was out, and passed it
over to Zilla, who took the sneer at the white man off her lips in
order to pucker them about the pipe-stem. Ebbits seemed sinking back
into his senility with the tale untold, and I demanded:

"What of thy sons, Moklan and Bidarshik? And why is it that you and
your old woman are without meat at the end of your years?"

He roused himself as from sleep, and straightened up with an effort.

"It is not good to steal," he said. "When the dog takes your meat you
beat the dog with a club. Such is the law. It is the law the man gave
to the dog, and the dog must live to the law, else will it suffer the
pain of the club. When man takes your meat, or your canoe, or your
wife, you kill that man. That is the law, and it is a good law. It is
not good to steal, wherefore it is the law that the man who steals must
die. Whoso breaks the law must suffer hurt. It is a great hurt to die."

"But if you kill the man, why do you not kill the dog?" I asked.

Old Ebbits looked at me in childlike wonder, while Zilla sneered openly
at the absurdity of my question.

"It is the way of the white man," Ebbits mumbled with an air of
resignation.

"It is the foolishness of the white man," snapped Zilla.

"Then let old Ebbits teach the white man wisdom," I said softly.

"The dog is not killed, because it must pull the sled of the man. No
man pulls another man's sled, wherefore the man is killed."

"Oh," I murmured.

"That is the law," old Ebbits went on. "Now listen, O White Man, and
I will tell you of a great foolishness. There is an Indian. His name
is Mobits. From white man he steals two pounds of flour. What does the
white man do? Does he beat Mobits? No. Does he kill Mobits? No. What
does he do to Mobits? I will tell you, O White Man. He has a house. He
puts Mobits in that house. The roof is good. The walls are thick. He
makes a fire that Mobits may be warm. He gives Mobits plenty grub to
eat. It is good grub. Never in his all days does Mobits eat so good
grub. There is bacon, and bread, and beans without end. Mobits have
very good time.

"There is a big lock on door so that Mobits does not run away. This
also is a great foolishness. Mobits will not run away. All the time is
there plenty grub in that place, and warm blankets, and a big fire.
Very foolish to run away. Mobits is not foolish. Three months Mobits
stop in that place. He steal two pounds of flour. For that, white man
take plenty good care of him. Mobits eat many pounds of flour, many
pounds of sugar, of bacon, of beans without end. Also, Mobits drink
much tea. After three months white man open door and tell Mobits he
must go. Mobits does not want to go. He is like dog that is fed long
time in one place. He want to stay in that place, and the white man
must drive Mobits away. So Mobits come back to this village, and he is
very fat. That is the white man's way, and there is no understanding
it. It is a foolishness, a great foolishness."

"But thy sons?" I insisted. "Thy very strong sons and thine old-age
hunger?"

"There was Moklan," Ebbits began.

"A strong man," interrupted the mother. "He could dip paddle all of a
day and night and never stop for the need of rest. He was wise in the
way of the salmon and in the way of the water. He was very wise."

"There was Moklan," Ebbits repeated, ignoring the interruption. "In the
spring, he went down the Yukon with the young men to trade at Cambell
Fort. There is a post there, filled with the goods of the white man,
and a trader whose name is Jones. Likewise is there a white man's
medicine man, what you call missionary. Also is there bad water at
Cambell Fort, where the Yukon goes slim like a maiden, and the water is
fast, and the currents rush this way and that and come together, and
there are whirls and sucks, and always are the currents changing and
the face of the water changing, so at any two times it is never the
same. Moklan is my son, wherefore he is brave man--"

"Was not my father brave man?" Zilla demanded.

"Thy father was brave man," Ebbits acknowledged, with the air of one
who will keep peace in the house at any cost. "Moklan is thy son and
mine, wherefore he is brave. Mayhap, because of thy very brave father,
Moklan is too brave. It is like when too much water is put in the pot
it spills over. So too much bravery is put into Moklan, and the bravery
spills over.

"The young men are much afraid of the bad water at Cambell Fort. But
Moklan is not afraid. He laughs strong, Ho! ho! and he goes forth into
the bad water. But where the currents come together the canoe is turned
over. A whirl takes Moklan by the legs, and he goes around and around,
and down and down, and is seen no more."

"Ai! ai!" wailed Zilla. "Crafty and wise was he, and my first-born!"

"I am the father of Moklan," Ebbits said, having patiently given the
woman space for her noise. "I get into canoe and journey down to
Cambell Fort to collect the debt!"

"Debt!" interrupted. "What debt?"

"The debt of Jones, who is chief trader," came the answer. "Such is the
law of travel in a strange country."

I shook my head in token of my ignorance, and Ebbits looked compassion
at me, while Zilla snorted her customary contempt.

"Look you, O White Man," he said. "In thy camp is a dog that bites.
When the dog bites a man, you give that man a present because you are
sorry and because it is thy dog. You make payment. Is it not so? Also,
if you have in thy country bad hunting, or bad water, you must make
payment. It is just. It is the law. Did not my father's brother go
over into the Tanana Country and get killed by a bear? And did not the
Tanana tribe pay my father many blankets and fine furs? It was just. It
was bad hunting, and the Tanana people made payment for the bad hunting.

"So I, Ebbits, journeyed down to Cambell Fort to collect the debt.
Jones, who is chief trader, looked at me, and he laughed. He made great
laughter, and would not give payment. I went to the medicine-man, what
you call missionary, and had large talk about the bad water and the
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