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“Yes—the best kind of medicine—your friendship—when I came here, and ever since. Some day I’ll tell you about it, but not now—not yet, Thomas Angus. Now we must think of Jamie, and do our best.”
“Aye, and do our best,” said Thomas.
Thomas Angus had always done his best with cheerful heroism, and how he hoped now to improve upon the best is hard to guess. Down on The Labrador every man must do his best all of the time if he would keep the flour barrel filled and run no debt with traders. In that stern land there can be no idling or wasting of time, and men work as though it were a joy, and the folk endure hardships without ever knowing they are hardships, and are happy, too, withal. Life there is grim and real.
Every boy and every girl, too, learns early to do his or her part, and accept what comes without complaint.
Young lad though he was, Jamie heard Doctor Joe’s verdict bravely, and accepted his affliction as one of the ups and downs of life. Until now he had been hoping each night when he went to sleep that when he opened his eyes in the morning he would find that the mist had lifted while he slept. Now this hope was gone. But there was still the hope that some day the great doctor to whom Doctor Joe had written, would cut the mist away, and hope is a wonderful thing for the building of courage.
“Keep your grit, lad,” said Thomas. “Doctor Joe says you’ll find th’ mist gettin’ thicker and th’ world growin’ darker for a time, and I’m thinkin’ you’ll need grit a plenty. Grit’s a great thing t’ have—a stout heart like a man’s, now, and plenty o’ grit, is a wonderful help.”
“I’ll keep my grit, whatever,” declared Jamie, “an’ I’ll keep my heart stout, like a man’s.”
“That’s fine now! I’m proud o’ my fine, brave lad!” encouraged Thomas. “I’ll be bound Doctor Joe’ll find a way sooner or later, by hook or by crook, t’ lift th’ mist.”
The fishing season was at an end, and Thomas and the boys had made a good catch. They had nearly enough salmon and trout salted in barrels to pay for their winter’s supply of flour and pork, in barter, at the post. This had never happened before, but this year there had been an uncommon run of salmon.
“We’ll load un in th’ boat and take un to the post tomorrow,” said Thomas, as they sat at tea on the evening when the last barrel was headed. “’Tis a clever catch, and we has un when we needs un th’ most.”
“And I hopes,” said David, dipping a spoonful of molasses into his tea, “’Twill be a fine year for fur, and us and Doctor Joe’ll sure get th’ fur t’ pay for Jamie goin’ for th’ cure.”
“Pop’ll get th’ fur—Pop and Uncle Joe,” broke in Andy. “Pop’s a wonderful hunter.”
“We’ll get un if ’tis t’ be got,” declared Thomas. “Oh, aye, we’ll get un.”
“There comes Doctor Joe,” Andy announced, as Doctor Joe, walking up from the landing place, passed the window, singing in a rich tenor voice:
“The worst of my foes are worries and woes,And all about troubles that never come true.And all about troubles that never come true.The worst of my foes are worries and woes,And all about troubles that never come true.”“I wonder, now,” said Thomas, “if ’taint true—that song Doctor Joe is singin’.”
Just then the door opened and in walked Doctor Joe himself.
“Always just in time!” he exclaimed.
“Set in! Set in!” said Thomas heartily, visibly cheered by Doctor Joe’s coming.
“That I will,” accepted Doctor Joe. “I was lonely at Break Cove alone, and I pulled over in the skiff for a chat, and to spend the night—and to have a look at Jamie’s eyes.”
It was always a treat to have Doctor Joe with them for a night. When he and Thomas lighted their pipes in the evening, and the big box stove was crackling cheerily, he thrilled them with stories of other and far-off lands. Thomas was no less interested than Margaret and the boys in his wonderful tales of the great outside world, and of the great city in which he had once lived—of the mighty buildings that towered high, high up into the skies—of the rushing railway trains—and their wonderful speed—of people so numerous that they crowded one another on the streets, and where you might meet thousands and thousands of people and never know one by name, and where half a hundred families might live in a single house.
“I’d like wonderful well t’ have a look at un,” said Thomas, “but I wouldn’t want t’ have t’ stay long in such a place. There wouldn’t be room t’ stretch.”
“No,” agreed Doctor Joe, “you wouldn’t care to stay there.”
“And how’s th’ huntin’?” asked David. “Seems like there wouldn’t be game enough for ’em all t’ hunt, and I’m wonderin’, now, how they gets their meat.”
Then Doctor Joe had to tell them about cattle and sheep, the great stock ranges and stock yards, and how the animals were butchered and the meat sold.
“I wouldn’t want t’ eat th’ meat of animals I raised up like that,” declared Margaret. “’Tis wonderful hard and cruel t’ tie un up like that and kill un. They don’t have a chance t’ get away, like th’ deer has here.”
“But there are plenty of people there,” said Doctor Joe, “who eat the meat every day without giving a thought to that, but who think it very cruel to hunt and kill deer and other wild animals.”
“But th’ deer and wild game has a chance t’ get away and save themselves,” insisted Margaret. “The poor cows and sheep don’t have a chance at all. There must be wonderful strange folk in th’ world t’ think ’tis wrong t’ hunt deer.”
“I’m thinkin’,” suggested Thomas, “that th’ Lard puts cows and sheep in th’ world for people t’ kill and t’ eat when they needs un. ’Tis right for th’ folk there t’ kill th’ cows and sheep t’ get meat. ’Tis right for us here t’ kill deer and such game as we can, t’ eat. We couldn’t live without un. ’Tis th’ different ways th’ Lard has of givin’ them meat an’ givin’ us meat.”
“That’s sound reasoning,” observed Doctor Joe.
And so they talked until bedtime, and then, at Thomas’s request Doctor Joe read aloud from the scriptures, and Thomas offered an evening prayer, for on The Labrador, where there are no churches, but where folk live near to God, their Christian faith is great, and they do not forget to give thanks for their blessings, and to worship Him.
Then Doctor Joe spread his blankets upon the floor, for in that country visitors and travelers carry their beds with them, and there is welcome and room enough for all in every house.
“I’ll stay and help you load your fish,” suggested Doctor Joe, when they had eaten breakfast the following morning. “You’ve two good, stout helpers, but an extra one, I take it, won’t be in the way.”
“’Twill be a great help,” said Thomas. “The boys finds th’ barrels heavy liftin’, and an extra hand would help us wonderful much.”
“And get un done quicker,” suggested David, “and then we’ll get away to th’ post on this tide.”
“All right,” said Doctor Joe, “let’s go to it.”
Below the house Thomas had built of stones and logs a short jetty, which served as a wharf for loading and unloading his big boat. The barrels of fish were rolled down to the jetty, and the boat brought alongside.
“Now,” said Thomas, “’twill be easy work. Davy and Andy can roll the barrels to us, Doctor Joe, whilst you and I lifts un down into the boat and stows un. They’re a bit heavy, but we can manage without troubling with a rope t’ lower un down, and ’twill save time.”
“All right,” agreed Doctor Joe. “Let them come, boys.”
“Aye,” laughed Davy, “we’ll let un come fast as ever you and Pop can lift un.”
And so they were doing well enough, and making quick work of it, until the last barrel came, and the boat was so crowded with cargo that the standing room for Thomas and Doctor Joe was narrow and cramped.
“Have you a good footing there?” asked Doctor Joe, when the barrel was balanced on the end of the jetty and they were ready for the lift.
“’Tis all right,” said Thomas, “let her come.”
And then Thomas slipped, and though Doctor Joe did his best to prevent it, the barrel crashed down upon Thomas’s leg, and when Doctor Joe and David lifted it and released him, Thomas discovered that he could not stand upon the leg.
“She’ll soon be all right,” said Thomas. “She’s just numbed a bit with the weight.”
“Let me feel of it,” suggested Doctor Joe, proceeding to examine the leg.
“Aye, feel of un, and rub th’ numbness out,” said Thomas.
“Too bad! Too bad!” exclaimed Doctor Joe, presently. “The leg is broken.”
And so indeed it proved.
Doctor Joe and the boys carried Thomas to the house and laid him in his bunk. Then Doctor Joe cut some sticks of proper length and size and wrapped them with pieces of old blanket, and with David’s[Pg 31]
[Pg 32] help set the leg and deftly bound the splints into place with bandages which Margaret had quickly prepared under his direction as he worked.
“There you are,” he said, finally, standing up and surveying his work. “Does it feel comfortable, Tom?”
“Not so bad,” answered Thomas. “Will th’ lashin’s hold, now?”
“I’ll warrant that!” assured Doctor Joe.
“And is she like t’ be straight and stout again when she heals?” asked Thomas anxiously.
“Straight and stout as ever she was,” promised Doctor Joe, “but you’ll have to lie still for a month or six weeks, and then you’ll be on crutches for a time. I’ll look after you, Tom.”
“And I can’t go to my trappin’ grounds, then, before th’ New Year, whatever?” Thomas asked anxiously.
“No—not before the New Year—whatever—nor after the New Year—not this winter—I’m afraid,” said Dr. Joe, reluctantly.
A shadow passed over Thomas’s face, but he said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” sympathized Doctor Joe.
“’Twere a blessin’ you were here t’ mend un,” said Tom.
“Yes,” agreed Doctor Joe, “it was well I was here to set it.”
“I wouldn’t mind so much if ’tweren’t for Jamie,” continued Thomas. “How, now, can we ever get th’ money t’ pay th’ lad’s way t’ have th’ great doctor cure him?”
But this was a question Doctor Joe could not answer, and he was sorely troubled.
“Pop,” said Jamie, who had come close to his father’s bed, “we’ll keep our grit, both of us, now.”
“Aye, lad, we’ll keep our grit, you and me,” and there was a choke in Thomas’s voice as he reached for Jamie’s hand, which Jamie gave him after passing it before his eyes in a vain effort to brush the mist away, which was a habit with him of late.
III
DOCTOR JOE
DOCTOR Joe’s usually jovial face had suddenly become drawn and tired. He had not answered Thomas’s question, “How, now, can we ever get th’ money t’ pay th’ lad’s way t’ have th’ great doctor cure him?” How, indeed, could they get the necessary money? What could they do to save Jamie’s eyes without money? And he was thinking of the years before he came to The Labrador—of what he had once been—of the years that he had spent on The Labrador as a hunter and fisherman. Had his life been wasted? he asked himself.
“We’re in a tight pinch, but hard luck is bound to come now and again,” said Thomas, at length, startling Doctor Joe out of his reveries, “and we’ll try not to worry about un. If ’tweren’t for Jamie’s eyes needin’ t’ be cured ’twouldn’t be so bad.”
“No, if ’tweren’t for Jamie’s eyes it wouldn’t be so bad. If ’tweren’t for Jamie’s eyes,” said Doctor Joe.
And then he turned and went out of doors and down to the beach, and for a little while paced up and down, with his head bent in thought.
There is no regret in life so bitter as regret for indiscretions that have ruined a career and ended life’s hopes and ambitions. The world is a desolate place indeed for a man to live in when he has no ambition and no goal of attainment. He is simply existing—a clog in the moving throng of doers. The man who does not go forward must of necessity go backward. There is no room in the hustle and bustle and jostle along the trail of life for one to stand still.
Now, as Doctor Joe paced the beach, he was thinking of these things and looking in retrospection upon his own life. What a wreck he had made of it! Once he had all but gained his life’s ambition, and a noble ambition it was. Through years of toil and tireless effort he had ascended the ladder of attainment. He had reached a high place in the world. In those days he was strong and able and self-reliant. The top round of the high ladder which he had climbed so tediously was within his grasp. Then came a day when he lost his balance and slipped and fell to the very bottom. In an hour all that he had worked for and hoped for and won was lost, and with it his courage and ambition.
Doctor Joe, contemplating his past and reviewing the train of circumstances which had ended his career, showered upon himself bitter denunciation and condemnation. He had indulged in appetites which had seemed innocent and harmless enough at first, but which had gradually and insidiously wormed their way into his soul until they had gained possession of him and had become his master. Then they had mercilessly ruined him and wrecked his life. Even the little fortune he had accumulated was lost. If he had only clung to that, at least, he would now be in position to meet the expense of Jamie’s necessary surgical operation.
“Oh God!” he moaned. “This boy’s future and happiness are in my hands! What can I do? What can the impotent wreck that I am, do?”
What, indeed, could Doctor Joe do? He was so indifferent a trapper that his earnings barely served to supply him with the ordinary comforts and necessities of life. The journey to New York would be an expensive one, and there appeared to him no other way by which Jamie’s sight could be saved.
Through the mist of departed years Doctor Joe turned back in fancy to his own boyhood home. He saw his father’s house, where he had grown to young manhood, and had planned the great things he was to do in the world. That was when life and the world with all their possibilities lay before him. Now they were behind him. There were no hopes or prospects for the future beyond a hand-to-mouth living from day to day, with a gray shadow upon the past.
He saw the path leading up from the village street to the door of his father’s cottage, and the green, well-kept lawn on either side, and his mother’s flower beds which she loved so well and nurtured with her own dear hands. He was there again in fancy. An odor of roses and sweet peas and honeysuckles came to his nostrils. He could see the fat, saucy robins hopping about upon the grass. And there was his mother at the door! How gentle and loving she always was. How she used to tuck him into bed and kiss him good night, when he was little. What plans she built for him, and how she always told him that he must be a generous and noble man when he grew up.
And then he passed on to the years when he helped his father, after school hours, in the little store around the corner, and the terrible day when his father died quickly, to be soon followed by his mother. How desolate the world seemed then! What a lonely struggle lay before him!
And when his father’s estate was settled, and the store and the home were sold, and he left the village, he had barely enough money in his pocket to meet his first year’s expenses at college. But he had vowed to make his way, as his mother had wished, and also to be her ideal of a man.
The years that followed were years of struggle, for it was not easy with bare hands to finish his education. But in those days he had brains and hope and courage, and the basic tenacity that will not surrender. And he was inspired in those early years by a profound belief that his mother was near him. He could not see her, but her spirit walked with him and watched over him. It gave him courage to feel her near him, and kept him straight when he was tempted to do wrong, for he would permit himself then to do nothing of which his mother would disapprove.
But somehow, later on in life, he had drifted away from her. He did not think of her so often, and with passing years her memory dimmed, and sometimes he forgot to be true to himself and to her ideals.
Doctor Joe’s thoughts dwelt for a time on the thing which had caused his downfall. What a friend it had seemed at first, but how, when it gained possession of him it tortured and finally ruined him. And here he was now—just a bit of human driftwood, cast up by the tide of events upon a far shore.
“Well,” said Doctor Joe, finally, lifting his head and looking about him, “there’s one consolation. Driftwood in this land may be used as firewood, to help warm freezing fingers. It’s a better fate than falling into a city sewer, or being cast upon a city’s garbage heap.”
And so Doctor Joe recalled himself to the present, and its necessities and obligations. What could he do? There was Thomas up in the cabin lying helpless with a broken leg, and Jamie going blind.
“If I were only the man I once was! If I were only the man I should be!” he mused. “Then I might help them. But I’m a pretty useless stick here, or anywhere. I’ve lost courage and ability. I’m not even an ordinary trapper.”
It was a hard problem to solve. The breaking of Thomas’s leg would not ordinarily have been so serious a matter. But Jamie’s eyes were at stake. If Jamie were to go to New York to be operated upon there must be money. If Thomas could not hunt, where possibly could the money be had?
“Well,” said he finally, “I don’t see any way just at present, but there’s no use worrying. If I worry they’ll all worry, and it will do them no good. I’ll do my level best, and put a cheerful face on things, and keep smiling. That seems to be all there is to do just now.”
With this decision Doctor Joe turned sharply upon his heel and strode briskly back to the cabin, singing as he went and as he entered:
“Old Worry’s my foe, and he always brings woe,And he follows about wherever I go.He’s always on hand, and he makes the world blue,And all about troubles that never come true.“The worst of my foes are worries and woes,And all about troubles that never come true—And all about troubles that never come true.The worst of my foes are worries and woes,And all about troubles that never come true.“I’ll put them behind me and be a real man,And I’ll smile and be cheerful, as any one can;For it’s foolish to fret, and worry, and stew,And all about troubles that never come true.”“I likes that song,” said Thomas as Doctor Joe came in. “It kind of makes me feel better.”
“There is something cheering about it,” agreed Doctor Joe, “and the best of it is, it’s true that the most of the things we worry about never happen.”
“I think you’re right about that,” said Thomas.
“And now,” continued Doctor Joe, “I’ve decided to stop here and look after you and things generally, while David and Andy take the fish to the post, if Margaret won’t find me in the way,” and Doctor Joe turned to Margaret.
“Oh, sir, you’re never in the way!” Margaret protested. “’Tis wonderful kind of you to stop with us. ’Tis fine of you!”
“’Tis that,” agreed Thomas heartily.
“Then I’ll stay,” said Doctor Joe, “until the lads get back. Unless there’s a contrary wind tomorrow they’ll be back tomorrow evening, and I can go home then, and make things snug for winter over at Break Cove. Then I’ll come back here now and again and spend Saturdays with you if you like.”
“Will you, now? Will you do that?” asked Thomas eagerly.
“Yes,” assured Doctor Joe, “you’re likely to get contrary, and if I’m around I’ll make you behave and do as you’re told.”
“I’m thinkin’ ’twill get tiresome layin’ here, and,” grinned Thomas, “I’m like t’ get cross and want t’ get up and stretch, and if I does—if I does, Doctor Joe, you’re like t’ have your hands full o’ business if you tries t’ stop me.”
“I’ll take care of you!” laughed Doctor Joe. “Just let’s agree, if things get tedious, we’ll keep cheerful and not let anything we can’t help worry us.”
“Aye,” said Thomas, “we’ll agree to that, though I’m not doubtin’ ’twill be a bit hard now and again to be cheery with a broken leg all lashed up like mine is, and me on my back.”
And so it was agreed that they were to look misfortune squarely in the face, as brave men should, without flinching. And need enough they were to have, in the months to come, for all the courage and fortitude they possessed.
IV
INDIAN JAKE, THE HALF BREED
AS soon as ever Margaret could get them a cup of tea and a snack to eat, David and Andy were to be off upon their voyage to the post. They were good boatmen and sailors, both of them, for down on The Labrador every lad learns the art of sailing early. Often enough they had made the journey to the post in the small boat. But now they were to be entrusted with the big boat, and with the season’s catch of fish as cargo, and they were to purchase the winter’s supplies for the house. This was an important mission indeed.
David, as skipper of the big boat, and Andy as crew, therefore felt a vast deal of responsibility, when Thomas called them to his bedside and gave David the final instructions. They were to bring back with them flour, pork, tea and molasses for the house, and woolen duffle, kersey and moleskin cloth for clothing, besides many little odds and ends to be purchased at the store. Then there were verbal messages to be delivered to Mr. MacCreary, the factor, and to Zeke Hodge, the post servant.
“And tell Mr. MacCreary I may be askin’ he for more debt than I been askin’ for many a year,” added Thomas with a tinge of regret, for it had been his pride to avoid debt. “But tell he I’ll pay un. I’ll pay un all when my leg is mended and I gets about again.”
“I’ll tell he, sir,” said David.
“’Twouldn’t be so bad, now, if you had two more years on your shoulders, Davy, lad,” Thomas continued, a little wistfully. “You could tend my trail then, and we might get th’ money t’ send Jamie for the cure.”
“I’m ’most sixteen!” David boasted. “I could tend un now. I knows I could, an’ you’d let me try un.”
“You’re too young yet, lad,” Thomas objected. “You’re too young to be alone up there in th’ bush, I couldn’t rest easy with you up there alone.”
“I could try un, whatever,” persisted David, eagerly.
“I’m not sayin’ you couldn’t tend th’ traps, lad,” assured Thomas, with pride. “You’d tend un, and not slight un. But a lad o’ your age is too young t’ be reasonable always. You’d take risks on nasty days, and run dangers. No,” he added decidedly, “I couldn’t think o’ lettin’ you go alone. If anything were to happen to you I never could rest easy again.”
David was plainly disappointed, for he felt the reliance and self-confidence of youth, and the romance and adventure of a winter’s isolation on the far-off trail appealed to him. And in his heart perhaps he resented what he deemed his father’s lack of confidence in him as a woodsman. It is the way of boys the world over to place their judgment sometimes above that of their elders.
The two lads ate their snack and drank their tea hurriedly, for the day was none too long, and then, with Doctor Joe to accompany them to the jetty and see them off with a cheery farewell, they loosed the boat from her moorings and David, with a long sculling oar, worked her down through The Jug and beyond the Point, where her sails caught the wind. Then David put away the sculling oar, shipped the rudder, and took the tiller, and turning to Andy he said:
“Since Pop broke his leg I been thinking’ wonderful hard, Andy.”
“What you been thinkin’, Davy?” asked Andy.
“I been thinkin’ I’ve got t’ hunt now, whatever,” announced David. “I’m goin’ t’ ask Pop again t’ let me hunt his trail this winter. He were sayin’ I can’t, but somebody must hunt un, and I’m th’ only one t’ do it. We got t’ have fur t’ pay for th’ cure o’ Jamie’s eyes, and Pop can’t hunt, and they’s no way t’ get un if I don’t hunt. If we don’t get un, Jimmie’ll go blind, and we must get un, whatever. You’ll have t’ do my work about home and hunt th’ meat and feed th’ dogs, and get th’ wood.”
“Pop won’t let you go t’ Seal Lake alone!” exclaimed Andy, startled by David’s apparent revolt against his father’s decision. “He said you couldn’t!”
“Yes he will. You’ll see,” declared David. “I has a plan, an’ Pop’ll let me go, I’m thinkin’, when he hears un. And ’tis th’ only chance t’ save Jamie from goin’ blind. I can’t make th’ hunt Pop would, but I’ll do my best, and anyway I’m ’most a man. I’ll soon be sixteen!”