Doctor Luke of the Labrador. Duncan Norman

help a lad to his desire.

      “Ay,” said my father, “but I’m wantin’ the doctor t’ be comfortable when he comes ashore.”

      “He’ll be comfortable enough, zur. The lad’ll sit in the bow an’ trim the boat. Pass the lantern t’ Davy, zur, an’ come aboard.”

      My father continued to grumble his concern for the doctor’s comfort; but he leaned over to pat my shoulder while Skipper Tommy pushed off: for he loved his little son, did my big father—oh, ay, indeed, he did! We were soon past the lumbering skiff—and beyond Frothy Point—and out of the Gate—and in the open sea, where the wind was blowing smartly and the rain was flying in gusts. My father hailed the steamer’s small-boat, inbound with the mail, to know if the doctor was in verity aboard; and the answer, though but half caught, was such that they bent heartily to the oars, and the punt gave a great leap and went staggering through the big waves in a way to delight one’s very soul. Thus, in haste, we drew near the steamer, which lay tossing ponderously in the ground-swell, her engines panting, her lamps bright, her many lights shining from port-hole and deck—all so cozy and secure in the dirty night: so strange to our bleak coast!

      At the head of the ladder the purser stood waiting to know about landing the freight.

      “Is you goin’ on?” my father asked.

      “Ay—t’ Wayfarer’s Tickle, when we load your skiff.”

      “ ’Twill be alongside in a trice. But my wife’s sick. I’m wantin’ t’ take the doctor ashore.”

      “He’s aft in the smokin’-room. You’d best speak t’ the captain first. Hold her? Oh, sure, he’ll hold her all night, for sickness!”

      They moved off forward. Then Skipper Tommy took my hand—or, rather, I took his; for I was made ill at ease by the great, wet sweep of the deck, glistening with reflections of bright lights, and by the throng of strange men, and by the hiss of steam and the clank of iron coming from the mysterious depths below. He would show me the cabin, said he, where there was unexampled splendour to delight in; but when we came to a little house on the after deck, where men were lounging in a thick fog of tobacco smoke, I would go no further (though Skipper Tommy said that words were spoken not meet for the ears of lads to hear); for my interest was caught by a giant pup, which was not like the pups of our harbour but a lean, long-limbed, short-haired dog, with heavy jaws and sagging, blood-red eyelids. At a round table, whereon there lay a short dog-whip, his master sat at cards with a stout little man in a pea-jacket—a loose-lipped, blear-eyed, flabby little fellow, but, withal, hearty in his own way—and himself cut a curious figure, being grotesquely ill-featured and ill-fashioned, so that one rebelled against the sight of him.

      A gust of rain beat viciously upon the windows and the wind ran swishing past.

      “ ’Tis a dirty night,” said the dog’s master, shuffling nervously in his seat.

      At this the dog lifted his head with a sharp snarl: whereupon, in a flash, the man struck him on the snout with the butt of the whip.

      “That’s for you!” he growled.

      The dog regarded him sullenly—his upper lip still lifted from his teeth.

      “Eh?” the man taunted. “Will you have another?”

      The dog’s head subsided upon his paws; but his eyes never once left his master’s face—and the eyes were alert, steady, hard as steel.

      “You’re l’arnin’,” the man drawled.

      But the dog had learned no submission, but, if anything, only craft, as even I, a child, could perceive; and I marvelled that the man could conceive himself to be winning the mastery of that splendid brute. ’Twas no way to treat a dog of that disposition. It had been a wanton blow—taken with not so much as a whimper. Mastery? Hut! The beast was but biding his time. And I wished him well in the issue. “Ecod!” thought I, with heat. “I hopes he gets a good grip o’ the throat!” Whether or not, at the last, it was the throat, I do not know; but I do know the brutal tragedy of that man’s end, for, soon, he came rough-shod into our quiet life, and there came a time when I was hot on his trail, and rejoiced, deep in the wilderness, to see the snow all trampled and gory. But the telling of that is for a later page; the man had small part in the scene immediately approaching: it was another. When the wind and rain again beat angrily upon the ship, his look of triumph at once gave place to cowardly concern; and he repeated:

      “ ’Tis a dirty night.”

      “Ay,” said the other, and, frowning, spread his cards before him. “What do you make, Jagger?”

      My father came in—and with him a breath of wet, cool air, which I caught with delight.

      “Ha!” he cried, heartily, advancing upon the flabby little man, “we been waitin’ a long time for you, doctor. Thank God, you’ve come, at last!”

      “Fifteen, two——” said the doctor.

      My father started. “I’m wantin’ you t’ take a look at my poor wife,” he went on, renewing his heartiness with an effort. “She’ve been wonderful sick all winter, an’ we been waitin’——”

      “Fifteen, four,” said the doctor; “fifteen, six——”

      “Doctor,” my father said, touching the man on the shoulder, while Jagger smiled some faint amusement, “does you hear?”

      It was suddenly very quiet in the cabin.

      “Fifteen, eight——” said the doctor.

      My father’s voice changed ominously. “Is you listenin’, zur?” he asked.

      “Sick, is she?” said the doctor. “Fifteen, ten. I’ve got you, Jagger, sure …’Tis no fit night for a man to go ashore … Fifteen, ten, did I say? and one for his nibs … Go fetch her aboard, man … And two for his heels——”

      My father laid his hand over the doctor’s cards. “Was you sayin’,” he asked, “t’ fetch her aboard?”

      “The doctor struck the hand away.

      “Was you sayin’,” my father quietly persisted, “t’ fetch her aboard?”

      I knew my father for a man of temper; and, now, I wondered that his patience lasted.

      “Damme!” the doctor burst out. “Think I’m going ashore in this weather? If you want me to see her now, go fetch her aboard.”

      My father coughed—then fingered the neck-band of his shirt.

      “I wants t’ get this here clear in my mind,” he said, slowly. “Is you askin’ me t’ fetch that sick woman aboard this here ship?”

      The doctor leaned over the table to spit.

      “Has I got it right, zur?”

      In the pause the spectators softly withdrew to the further end of the cabin.

      “If he won’t fetch her aboard, Jagger,” said the doctor, turning to the dog’s master, “she’ll do very well, I’ll be bound, till we get back from the north. Eh, Jagger? If he cared very much, he’d fetch her aboard, wouldn’t he?”

      Jagger laughed.

      “Ay, she’ll do very well,” the doctor repeated, now addressing my father, “till we get back. I’ll take a look at her then.”

      I saw the color rush into my father’s face. Skipper Tommy laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

      “Easy, now, Skipper David!” he muttered.

      “Is I right,” said my father, bending close to the doctor’s face, “in thinkin’ you says you won’t come ashore?”

      The doctor shrugged his shoulders.