Billy Topsail, M.D.

CHAPTER XXII

In Which Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail Go North, and at Candlestick Cove, Returning, Doctor Luke Finds Himself Just a Bit Peckish

A rumour came to Our Harbour, by the tongue of a fur-trader, who stopped over night at Doctor Luke's hospital, on his way to the South, that there was sickness in the North – some need or other; the fur-trader was not sure what. Winter still lingered. The mild spell, which had interrupted the journey of Billy Topsail and Teddy Brisk across Schooner Bay, had been a mere taste of spring. Hard weather had followed. Schooner Bay was once more jammed with ice, which had drifted back – jammed and frozen solid; and the way from Our Harbour to Tight Cove was secure. Teddy Brisk was ready to be moved; and this being so, and the lad being homesick for his mother, and the rumour of need in the North coming down – all this being so, Doctor Luke determined all at once to revisit the northern outports for the last time that winter.

"Are you ready for home, Teddy?" said he.

"I is that, sir!"

"Well," Doctor Luke concluded, "there is no reason why you should not be home. I'll harness the dogs to-morrow and take you across Schooner Bay on the komatik."

"Billy Topsail comin', sir?"

"What say, Billy?"

"May I go, sir?"

"You may."

"All the way, sir?"

"All the way!" cried Doctor Luke. "Why, boy, I'm going north to – "

"Please, sir!"

"Well, well! If you've the mind. Come along, boy. I'll be glad to have you."

Teddy Brisk was taken across Schooner Bay and restored to his mother's arms. And Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail drove the dogs north on Doctor Luke's successful round of visits.

It was on the return journey that Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail fell in with the Little Fiddler of Amen Island. At Candlestick Cove they were to feed the dogs and put up for the night. It was still treacherous March weather; and the night threatened foul – a flurry of snow falling and the sky overcast with a thickening drab scud. Day was done when Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail crawled out of the timber and scurried down Twist Hill. In the early dusk the lights were already twinkling yellow and warm in the cottages below; and from the crest of the long hill, in the last of the light, Amen Island was visible, an outlying shadow, across Ships' Run.

There were still sixty miles left of Doctor Luke's round – this second winter round from Our Harbour to the lonely huts of Laughter Bight, thirty miles north of Cape Blind, touching all the harbours between, and by way of Thunder Tickle and Candlestick Cove, which lay midway, back to the shaded lamp and radiant open fire of the little surgery at Our Harbour.

As the dogs scurried down Twist Hill, whimpering and snarling, eager to make an end of a hard day, Doctor Luke visioned those wintry miles and reflected upon the propriety of omitting a call at Amen Island.

Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail drew up at Mild Jim Cull's.

"Skipper James," said Doctor Luke, in the kitchen, across the lamp-lit, devastated supper table, an hour later, "what's the health of Amen Island?"

"They're all well, sir – so far as I knows."

"All well? Just my luck! Then I won't – "

"Amanda," Skipper James admonished his wife, in a grieved whisper, "the Doctor is wantin' another cup o' tea."

The good woman was astonished.

"He've had – " she began.

Then she blushed – and grasped the pot in a fluster – and —

"Thank you – no more," the Doctor protested.

"Ah, now, sir – "

"No more. Really, you know! I've quite finished. I – well – I – if you please, Mrs. Cull. Half a cup. No more. Thank you."

"An' Billy Topsail, too," said Skipper James.

Billy was abashed.

"No – really!" he began. "I – well – thank you – half a cup!"

"All fit an' well, sir, as I says," Skipper James repeated, relieved, now resuming his conversation with Doctor Luke – "so far as I knows."

"Anybody come across Ships' Run lately?"

"Well, no, sir – nobody but ol' Jack Hulk. Another slice o' pork, Doctor?"

The youngest little Cull tittered, astounded:

"He've had – "

Amanda covered the youngest little Cull's lips just in time with a soft hand.

"Thank you – no," the Doctor protested again. "I'm quite finished. Nothing more – really! Well," he yielded – "if you will – "

"You, too, Billy Topsail?" said Skipper James.

"Nothing more, really!" Billy replied, with a grin. And then: "Well – if you will – "

"No; nobody but ol' Jack Hulk," said Skipper James to Doctor Luke.

"Jack Hulk, you say? Hm-m. When was that?"

"I don't rightly remember, sir. 'Twas less than a fortnight ago. I'll lay t' that much."

"And all well over there?"

"No report o' sickness, sir. Have another cut o' bread, sir, while you're about it."

The Doctor lifted his hand.

"No – really," said he, positively. "No more. Well – I – if you please. Thank you. I seem to be just a bit peckish to-night."

"A cut o' bread, Billy?" said Skipper James.

Billy lifted his hand.

"Not a bite!" he protested. And he winked. "Ah, well," he yielded, "might as well, I 'low. Really, now, I is jus' a bit peckish the night."

"No; no report o' sickness on Amen," Skipper James repeated, resuming his conversation, as before.

"Quite sure about that?"

"Well, sir," Skipper James replied, his gray eyes twinkling, "I asked ol' Jack Hulk, an' he said, 'All well on Amen Island. The Lord's been wonderful easy on us this winter. I'd almost go so far as t' say,' says he, 'that He've been lax. We've had no visitation o' the Lord,' says he, 'since the fall o' the year. We don't deserve this mercy. I'm free t' say that. We isn't been livin' as we should. There's been more frivolity on Amen Island this winter than ever afore in my time. It haven't been noticed so far,' says he. 'That's plain enough. An' so as yet,' says he, 'we're all well on Amen Island.'"

The Doctor grinned.

"What's the ice on Ships' Run?" said he.

"'Tis tumbled, sir. The bread's at your elbow, sir."

"Thank you. Dogs?"

"No, sir. Ships' Run's jammed with floe ice. A man would have t' foot it across. You bound over, sir?"

Doctor Luke deliberated.

"I think not," said he, then. "No." This was positive. "If they're all as well as that on Amen Island I'll get away for Our Harbour at noon to-morrow. No; no more – really. I – well – I'm almost wolfish, I declare. Thank you – if you please – just a sma-a-all – "

Billy Topsail burst out laughing.

"What's this mirth?" cried the Doctor.

"Well, sir," Billy chuckled, "you is jus' a bit peckish the night, sir!"

There was a burst of laughter. At that moment, however, in a cottage on Amen Island, across Ships' Run, nobody was laughing – least of all the Little Fiddler of Amen Island.

CHAPTER XXIII

In Which, While Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail Rest Unsuspecting at Candlestick Cove, Tom Lute, the Father of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island, Sharpens an Axe in the Wood-Shed, and the Reader is Left to Draw His Own Conclusions Respecting the Sinister Business

It was the boast of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island that he had lamed many a man and maid. "An' ecod!" said he, his blue eyes alight, his clean little teeth showing in a mischievous grin, his round cheeks flushed with delight in the gift of power; "there's no leg between the Norman Light an' Cape Mugford so sodden it can balk me when I've the wind in my favour!" – meaning to imply, with more truth than modesty, that the alluring invitation of his music was altogether irresistible when he was in the mood to provoke a response.

"Had I the will," said he, "I could draw tears from the figurehead o' the Roustabout. An' one o' these days, when I've the mind t' show my power," said he, darkly, "maybe I'll do it, too!"

He was young – he was twelve. Terry Lute was his name. To be known as the Little Fiddler of Amen Island as far north as the world of that coast sailed was the measure of the celebrity he coveted. And that was a good deal: it is a long way for fame to carry – north to the uttermost fishing-berths of the Labrador. Unquestionably the Little Fiddler of Amen Island was of the proportions of a Master.

It was aboard a trading schooner – a fly-by-night visitor at Amen Island (not Skinflint Sam's trader from Ragged Run) – that the Little Fiddler of Amen Island had first clapped eyes on a fiddle and heard the strains of it. That was long ago – oh, long, long ago! Terry Lute was a mere child, then, as he recalled, in a wistful amusement with those old days, and was accustomed to narrate – seven or thereabouts. An' 'twas the month o' June – sweet weather, ecod! (said he) an' after dark an' the full o' the moon. And Terry had harkened to the strain – some plaintive imaginings of the melancholy clerk in the cabin, perhaps; and he had not been able to bear more – not another wail or sob of it (said he) – but had run full tilt to his mother's knee to tell her first of all the full wonder of the adventure.

'Twas called a fiddle (said he) – 'twas played with what they called a bow; an' oh, woman (said he), what music could be made by means of it! And Terry could play it – he had seen the clerk sawin' away – sawin' an' sawin' away; an' he had learned how 'twas done jus' by lookin' – in a mere peep. 'Twas nothin' at all t' do (said he) – not a whit o' bother for a clever lad. Jus' give un a fiddle an' a bow – he'd show un how 'twas done!

"I got t' have one, mama!" he declared. "Oo-sh! I jus' got t'!"

His mother laughed at this fine fervour.

"Mark me!" he stormed. "I'll have one o' they fiddles afore very long. An' I'll have folk fair shakin' their legs off t' the music I makes!"

When old Bob Likely, the mail-man, travelling afoot, southbound from Elegant Tickle to Our Harbour and the lesser harbours of Mad Harry and Thank-the-Lord, a matter of eighty miles – when old Bob Likely, on the night of Doctor Luke's arrival at Candlestick Cove, rounded Come-Along Point of Amen Island and searched the shadows ahead for his entertainment, his lodgings for the night were determined and disclosed.

It was late – a flurry of snow falling and the moon overcast with a thickening drab scud; and old Bob Likely's disheartened expectation on the tumbled ice of Ships' Run, between Point o' Bay of the Harbourless Shore and Amen Island, had consequently discovered the cottages of his destination dark – the windows black, the fires dead, the kitchens frosty and the folk of Amen Island long ago turned in.

Of the thirty cottages of Amen, however, snuggled under thick blankets of snow, all asleep in the gray night, one was wide awake – lighted up as though for some festivity; and for the hospitality of its lamps and smoking chimney old Bob Likely shaped his astonished course.

"'Tis a dance!" he reflected, heartening his step. "I'll shake a foot if I lame myself!"

Approaching Tom Lute's cottage from the harbour ice, old Bob Likely cocked his ear for the thump and shuffle of feet and the lively music of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island. It was the Little Fiddler's way to boast: "They'll sweat the night! Mark me! I'm feelin' fine. They'll shed their jackets! I'll have their boots off!"

And old Bob Likely expected surely to discover the Little Fiddler, perched on the back of a chair, the chair aloft on the kitchen table, mischievously delighting in the abandoned antics of the dancers, the while a castaway sealing crew, jackets shed and boots kicked off, executed a reel with the maids of Amen Island.

But there was no music – no thump or shuffle of feet or lively strain; the house was still – except for a whizz and metallic squeaking in the kitchen shed to which old Bob Likely made his way to lay off the sacred bag of His Majesty's Mail and his own raquets and brush himself clean of snow.

Tom Lute was whirling a grindstone by candle-light in the shed. When Bob Likely lifted the latch and pushed in he was interrupted and startled.

"Who's that?" he demanded.

"'Tis His Majesty's Mail, Tom."

"That you, Bob?" Tom's drawn face lightened with heartiness. "Well, well! Come in. You're welcome. We've need of a lusty man in this house the night. If the thing haves t' be done, Bob, you'll come handy for holdin'. You come across from Candlestick?"

Bob threw off his pack.

"No," said he, "I come over from Point o' Bay."

"Up from Laughter Bight, Bob?"

"All the way."

"Any word o' Doctor Luke down north?"

"Ay; he's down north somewheres."

"Whereabouts, Bob?"

"I heard of un at Trap Harbour."

"Trap Harbour! Was he workin' north, Bob?"

"There was sickness at Huddle Cove."

"At Huddle Cove? My, my! 'Tis below Cape Blind. He'll not be this way in a fortnight. Oh, dear me!"

By this time His Majesty's Mail was stamping his feet and brooming the snow from his seal-hide boots. In answer to his violence the kitchen door fell ajar. And Bob Likely cocked his ear. Queer sounds – singular scraps of declaration and pleading – issued to the wood-shed.

There was the tap-tap of a wooden leg. Bob Likely identified the presence and agitated pacing of the maternal grandfather of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island. And there was a whimper and a sob. It was the Little Fiddler.

A woman crooned:

"Hush, dear – ah, hush, now!"

A high-pitched, querulous voice:

"That's what we done when I sailed along o' Small Sam Small aboard the Royal Bloodhound." And repeated, the wooden leg tap-tapping meanwhile: "That's what we done aboard the Royal Bloodhound. Now, mark me! That's what we done t' Cap'n Small Sam Small."

A young roar, then:

"I'll never have it done t' me!"

And the woman again:

"Ah, hush, dear! Never mind! Ah – hush, now!"

To which there responded a defiant bawl:

"I tells you I won't have it done t' me!"

By all this, to be sure, old Bob Likely, with his ear cocked and his mouth fallen open in amazement, was deeply mystified.

"Look you, Tom!" said he, suspiciously; "what you doin' out here in the frost?"

"Who? Me?" Tom was evasive and downcast.

"Ay."

"Nothin' much."

"'Tis a cold place for that, Tom. An' 'tis a poor lie you're tellin'. 'Tis easy t' see, Tom, that you're busy."

"Ah, well, I got a little job on hand."

"What is your job?"

"This here little job I'm doin' now?"

"Ay."

"Nothin' much."

"What is it?"

Tom was reluctant. "I'm puttin' an edge on my axe," he replied.

"What for, Tom?"

Tom hesitated. "Well – " he drawled. And then, abruptly: "Nothin' much." He was both grieved and agitated.

"But what for?"

"I wants it good an' sharp."

"What you want it good an' sharp for?"

"An axe serves best," Tom evaded, "when 'tis sharp."

"Look you, Tom!" said Bob; "you're behavin' in a very queer way, an' I gives you warnin' o' the fac'. What happens? Here I comes quite unexpected on you by candle-light in the shed. Who is I? I'm His Majesty's Mail. Mark that, Tom! An' what does I find you doin'? Puttin' an edge on an axe. I asks you why you're puttin' an edge on your axe. An' you won't tell. If I didn't know you for a mild man, Tom, I'd fancy you was tired o' your wife."

"Tired o' my wife!" Tom exploded, indignantly. "I isn't goin' t' kill my wife!"

"Who is you goin' t' kill?"

"I isn't goin' t' kill nobody."

"Well, what you goin' t' kill?"

"I isn't goin' t' kill nothin'."

"Well, then," Bob burst out, "what in thunder is you puttin' an edge on your axe for out here in the frost by candle-light at this time o' night?"

"Who? Me?"

"Ay – you!"

"I got some doctorin' t' do."

Bob lifted his brows. "Hum!" he coughed. "You usually do your doctorin' with an axe?" he inquired.

"No," said Tom, uneasily; "not with an axe."

"What you usually use, Tom?"

"What I usually uses, Bob," Tom replied, "is a decoction an' a spoon."

"Somebody recommend an axe for this complaint?"

"'Tisn't that, Bob. 'Tis this way. When I haves a job t' do, Bob, I always uses what serves best an' lies handy. That's jus' plain common sense an' cleverness. Well, then, jus' now an axe suits me to a tee. An' so I'm puttin' a good edge on the only axe I got."

"An axe," Bob observed, "will do quick work."

"That's jus' what I thought!" cried Tom, delighted. "Quick an' painless."

"There's jus' one trouble about an axe," Bob went on, dryly, "when used in the practice o' medicine. I never heard it stated – but I fancy 'tis true. What's done with an axe," he concluded, "is hard t' repair."

CHAPTER XXIV

In Which Bob Likely, the Mail-Man, Interrupts Doctor Luke's Departure, in the Nick of Time, with an Astonishing Bit of News, and the Ice of Ships' Run Begins to Move to Sea in a Way to Alarm the Stout Hearted

Doctor Luke, having finished his professional round of the Candlestick cottages in good time, harnessed his dogs, with the help of Billy Topsail, soon after noon next day. Evidently the folk of Amen Island were well. They had been frivolous, no doubt – but had not been caught at it. Amen Island was to be omitted. Doctor Luke was ready for the trail to Poor Luck Harbour on the way south. And he shouted a last good-bye to the folk of Candlestick Cove, who had gathered to wish him Godspeed, and laughed in delighted satisfaction with their affection, and waved his hand, and called to his dogs and cracked his whip; and he would have been gone south from Candlestick Cove on the way to Poor Luck and Our Harbour in another instant had he not caught sight of Bob Likely coming up the harbour ice from the direction of the Arctic floe that was then beginning to drive through Ships' Run under the impulse of a stiffening breeze from the north.

It was old Bob Likely with the mail-bag on his back – there was no doubt about that; the old man's stride and crooked carriage were everywhere familiar – and as he was doubtless from Amen Island, and as he carried the gossip of the coast on the tip of his tongue, of which news of illness and death was not the lest interesting variety, Doctor Luke, alert for intelligence that might serve the ends of his work – Doctor Luke halted his team and waited for old Bob Likely to draw near.

"From Amen, Bob?"

"I is, sir. I'm jus' come across the floe."

"Are they all well?"

"Well, no, sir; they isn't. The Little Fiddler is in mortal trouble. I fears, sir, he's bound Aloft."

"Hut!" the Doctor scoffed. "What's the matter with the Little Fiddler?"

"He've a sore finger, sir."

The Doctor pondered this. He frowned – perplexed. "What sort of a sore finger?" he inquired, troubled.

"They thinks 'tis mortification, sir."

"Gangrene! What do you think, Bob?"

"It looks like it, sir. I seed a case, sir, when I were off sealin' on the – "

"Was the finger bruised?"

"No, sir; 'twasn't bruised."

"Was it frost-bitten?"

"No, sir; 'twasn't the frost that done it. I made sure o' that. It come from a small cut, sir."

"A simple infection, probably. Did you see a line of demarcation?"

"Sir?"

"It was discoloured?"

"Oh, ay, sir! 'Twas some queer sort o' colour."

"What colour?"

"Well, sir," said Bob, cautiously, "I wouldn't say as t' that. I'd jus' say 'twas some mortal queer sort o' colour an' be content with my labour."

"Was there a definite line between the discolouration and what seemed to be sound flesh?"

Bob Likely scratched his head in doubt.

"I don't quite mind," said he, "whether there was or not."

"Then there was not," the Doctor declared, relieved. "You would not have failed to note that line. 'Tis not gangrene. The lad's all right. That's good. Everybody else well on Amen Island?"

Bob was troubled.

"They're t' cut that finger off," said he, "jus' as soon as little Terry will yield. Las' night, sir, we wasn't able t' overcome his objection. 'Tis what he calls one of his fiddle fingers, sir, an' he's holdin' out – "

"Cut it off? Absurd! They'll not do that."

"Ay; but they will, sir. 'Tis t' be done the night, sir, with the help o' Sandy Lands an' Black Walt Anderson. They're t' cotch un an' hold un, sir. They'll wait no longer. They're afeared o' losin' little Terry altogether."

"Yes; but surely – "

"If 'twere mortification, sir, wouldn't you cut that finger off?"

"At once."

"With an axe?"

"If I had nothing better."

"An' if the lad was obstinate – "

"If an immediate operation seemed to be advisable, Bob, I would have the lad held."

"Well, sir," said Bob, "they thinks 'tis mortification, sir, an' not knowin' no better – "

"Thank you," said the Doctor. He turned to Mild Jim Cull. "Skipper James," said he, "have Timmie take care of the dogs. I'll cross Ships' Run and lance that finger."

Dusk fell on Amen Island. No doctor had happened across the Run. No saving help – no help of any sort, except the help of Sandy Lands and Black Walt Anderson, to hold the rebellious subject – had come.

At Candlestick Cove Doctor Luke had been delayed. The great news of his fortunate passing had spread inland overnight to the tilts of Rattle River. Before the Doctor could get under way for Amen Island, an old dame of Serpent Bend, who had come helter-skelter through the timber, whipping her team, frantic to be in time to command relief before the Doctor's departure, drove up alone, with four frowsy dogs, and desired the extraction of a tooth; but so fearful and coy was she – notwithstanding that she had suffered the tortures of the damned, as she put it, for three months, having missed the Doctor on his northern course – that the Doctor was kept waiting on her humour an hour or more before she would yield to his scoldings and blandishments.

And no sooner had the old dame of Serpent Bend been rejoiced to receive her recalcitrant tooth in a detached relationship than a lad of Trapper's Lake trudged in to expose a difficulty that turned out to be neither more nor less than a pitiable effect of the lack of nourishment; and when an arrangement had been accomplished to feed the lad well and strong again, a woman of Silver Fox was driven in – a matter that occupied Doctor Luke until the day was near spent and the crossing of Ships' Run was a hazard to be rather gravely debated.