Doctor Luke of the Labrador. Duncan Norman

that they’s nar a man in all the world t’ think o’ that—but me!”

      My mother smiled.

      “I’m thinkin’ I’ll just have t’ try,” Skipper Tommy went on, frowning anxiously. “But, ecod!” he cried, “maybe the Lard wouldn’t like it. Now, maybe, He wants us men t’ mind our business. Maybe, He’d say, ‘You keep your finger out o’ My pie. Don’t you go makin’ no books about cures.’ But, oh, no!” with the overflow of fine feeling which so often came upon him. “Why, He wouldn’t mind a little thing like that. Sure, I wouldn’t mind it, meself! ‘You go right ahead, lad,’ He’d say, ‘an’ try t’ work your cures. Don’t you be afeared o’ Me. I’ll not mind. But, lad,’ He’d say, ‘when I wants my way I just got t’ have it. Don’t you forget that. Don’t you go thinkin’ you can have your way afore I has Mine. You just trust Me t’ do what’s right. I know My business. I’m used t’ running worlds. I’m wonderful sorry,’ He’d say, ‘t’ have t’ make you feel bad; but they’s times, b‘y,’ He’d say, ‘when I really got t’ have My way.’ Oh, no,” Skipper Tommy concluded, “the Lard wouldn’t mind a poor man’s tryin’ t’ make a book like that! An’ I thinks I’ll just have t’ try.”

      “Sure, Skipper Tommy,” said I, “I’ll help you.”

      Skipper Tommy stared at me in great amaze.

      “Ay,” said my mother, “Davy has learned to write.”

      “That I have,” I boasted; “an’ I’ll help you make that book.”

      “ ’Tis the same,” cried Skipper Tommy, slapping his thigh “as if ’twas writ already!”

      After a long time, my mother spoke. “You’re always wanting to do some good thing, Skipper Tommy, are you not?” said she.

      “Well,” he admitted, his face falling, “I thinks and wonders a deal, ’tis true, but somehow I don’t seem t’——”

      “Ay?” my father asked.

      “Get—nowhere—much!”

      Very true: but, even then, there was a man on the way to help him.

IV

       Table of Contents

MARY

       Table of Contents

      In the dead of winter, great storms of wind and snow raged for days together, so that it was unsafe to venture ten fathoms from the door, and the glass fell to fifty degrees (and more) below zero, where the liquid behaved in a fashion so sluggish that ’twould not have surprised us had it withdrawn into the bulb altogether, never to reappear in a sphere of agreeable activity. By night and day we kept the fires roaring (my father and Skipper Tommy standing watch and watch in the night) and might have gone at ease, cold as it was, had we not been haunted by the fear that a conflagration, despite our watchfulness, would of a sudden put us at the mercy of the weather, which would have made an end of us, every one, in a night. But when the skipper had wrought us into a cheerful mood, the wild, white days sped swift enough—so fast, indeed, that it was quite beyond me to keep count of them: for he was marvellous at devising adventures out-of-doors and pastimes within. At length, however, he said that he must be off to the Lodge, else Jacky and Timmie, the twins, who had been left to fend for themselves, would expire of longing for his return.

      “An’ I’ll be takin’ Davy back with me, mum,” said he to my mother, not daring, however, to meet her eye to eye with the proposal, “for the twins is wantin’ him sore.”

      “Davy!” cried my mother. “Surely, Skipper Tommy, you’re not thinking to have Davy back with you!”

      Skipper Tommy ventured to maintain that I would be the better of a run in the woods, which would (as he ingeniously intimated) restore the blood to my cheeks: whereupon my mother came at once to his way of thinking, and would hear of no delay, but said—and that in a fever of anxiety—that I must be off in the morning, for she would not rest until I was put in the way of having healthful sport with lads of my age. So, that night, my sister made up three weeks’ rations for me from our store (with something extra in the way of tinned beef and a pot of jam as a gift from me to the twins); also, she mended my sleeping-bag, in which my sprouting legs had kicked a hole, and got out the big black wolfskin, for bed covering in case of need. And by the first light of the next day we loaded the komatik, harnessed the joyful dogs and set out with a rush, the skipper’s long whip cracking a jolly farewell as we went swinging over the frozen harbour to the Arm.

      “Hi, hi, b’y!” the skipper shouted to the dogs.

      Crack! went the whip, high over the heads of the pack. The dogs yelped. “Hi, hi!” screamed I. And on we sped, raising a dust of crisp snow in our wake. It was a famous pack. Fox, the new leader, was a mighty, indomitable fellow, and old Wolf, in the rear, had a sharp eye for lagging heels, which he snapped, in a flash, whenever a trace was let slack. What with Fox and Wolf and the skipper’s long whip and my cries of encouragement there was no let up. On we went, coursing over the level stretches, bumping over rough places, swerving ’round the turns. It was a glorious ride. The day was clear, the air frosty, the pace exhilarating. The blood tingled in every part of me. I was sorry when we rounded Pipestem Point, and the huddled tilts of the Lodge, half buried in snow, came into view. But, half an hour later, in Skipper Tommy’s tilt, I was glad that the distance had been no greater, for then the twins were helping me thaw out my cheeks and the tip of my nose, which had been frozen on the way.

      That night the twins and I slept together in the cock-loft like a litter of puppies.

      “Beef!” sighed Jacky, the last thing before falling asleep. “Think o’ that, Timmie!”

      “An’ jam!” said Timmie.

      They gave me a nudge to waken me. “Thanks, Davy,” said they both.

      Then I fell asleep.

      Our folk slept a great deal at the Lodge. They seemed to want to have the winter pass without knowing more than they could help of the various pangs of it—like the bears. But, when the weather permitted them to stir without, they trapped for fox and lynx, and hunted (to small purpose) with antiquated guns, and cut wood, if they were in the humour; and whatever necessity compelled them to do, and whatever they had to eat (since there was at least enough of it), they managed to have a rollicking time of it, as you would not suppose, without being told. The tilts were built of slim logs, caulked with moss; and there was but one room—and that a bare one—with bunks at one end for the women and a cock-loft above for the men. The stove was kept at red heat, day and night, but, notwithstanding, there was half an inch of frost on the walls and great icicles under the bunks: extremes of temperature were thus to be found within a very narrow compass. In the evening, when we were all gathered close about the stove, we passed the jolliest hours; for it was then that the folk came in, and tales were told, and (what was even more to our taste) the “spurts at religion” occurred.

      When the argument concerned the pains of hell, Mary, Tom Tot’s daughter, who was already bound out to service to the new manager of the store at Wayfarer’s Tickle (expected by the first mail-boat), would slip softly in to listen.

      “What you thinkin’ about?” I whispered, once.

      She sat remote from the company, biting her finger nails, staring, meanwhile, from speaker to speaker, with eyes that were pitifully eager.

      “Hell,” she answered.

      I was taken aback by that. “Hell, Mary?” I exclaimed.

      “Ay, Davy,” she said,