"Tired o' my wife!" Tom exploded, indignantly. "I isn't goin' t' kill my wife!"
"Whoisyou goin' t' kill?"
"I isn't goin' t' kill nobody."
"Well,whatyou 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."
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
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 caughtsight 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 threemonths, 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.
"You'll put it off, sir?" Skipper James advised.
The Doctor surveyed the ice of Ships' Run and the sky beyond Amen Island.
"I wish I might," said he, frankly.
"I would, sir."
"I—I can't very well."
"The floe's started down the Run, sir."
"Yes-s," the Doctor admitted, uneasily; "but you see, Skipper James, I—I——"
In Which a Stretch of Slush is to be Crossed and Billy Topsail Takes the Law in His Own Hands
In Which a Stretch of Slush is to be Crossed and Billy Topsail Takes the Law in His Own Hands
Itwas falling dusk and blowing up when Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail, gaffs in hand, left the heads of Candlestick Cove for the ice of Ships' Run; and a spit of frosty snow—driving in straight lines—was in the gale. Amen Island, lying nearly in the wind's eye, was hardly distinguishable, through the misty interval, from the blue-black sky beyond.
There was more wind in the northeast—more snow and a more penetrating degree of frost. It was already blowing at the pitch of half a gale: it would rise to a gale in the night, thick with snow, it might be, and blowing bitter cold—the wind jumping over the point of Amen Island on a diagonal and sweeping down the Run.
Somewhere to leeward of Candlestick Cove the jam had yielded to the rising pressure of the wind. The floe was outward bound from theRun. It was already moving in the channel, scraping the rocks of both shores—moving faster as the pans below ran off to open water and removed their restraint.
As yet the pans and hummocks were in reasonably sure contact all the way from Candlestick Cove to Come-Along Point of Amen Island; but the ice was thinning out with accelerating speed—black water disclosing itself in widening gaps—as the compression was relieved. All the while, thus, as Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail made across, the path was diminishing.
In the slant of the wind the ice in the channel of Ships' Run was blown lightly against the Candlestick coast. About the urgent business of its escape to the wide water of Great Yellow Bay the floe rubbed the Candlestick rocks in passing and crushed around the corner of Dead Man's Point.
Near Amen Island, where the wind fell with less force, there was a perilous line of separation. In the lee of the Amen hills—close inshore—the ice was not disturbed: it hugged the coast as before; but outward of this—where the wind dropped down—a lane of water was opening between the inert shore ice and the wind-blown main floe.
As yet the lane was narrow; and there were pans in it—adrift and sluggishly moving away from the Amen shore. When Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail came to this widening breach they were delayed—the course was from pan to pan in a direction determined by the exigency of the moment; and when they had drawn near the coast of Amen—having advanced in a general direction as best they could—they were halted altogether.
And they were not then under Come-Along Point, but on a gathering of heavy Arctic ice, to the north, at the limit of Ships' Run, under that exposed head of Amen, called Deep Water Head, which thrusts itself into the open sea.
"We're stopped, sir," Billy Topsail declared. "We'd best turn back, sir, while there's time."
A way of return was still open. It would be laborious—nothing worse.
"One moment——"
"No chance, sir."
"I'm an agile man, Billy. One moment. I——"
Billy Topsail turned his back to a blast of thegale and patiently awaited the issue of Doctor Luke's inspection of the path.
"A man can't cross that slush, sir," said he.
Past Deep Water Head the last of the floe was driving. There is a wide little cove there—it is called Deep Water Cove; and there is deep water—a drop of ten fathoms (they say)—under Deep Water Cliff. There was open water in both directions beyond the points of the cove. A detour was thus interrupted.
Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail confronted the only ice that was still in contact with the shore. At no time had the floe extended far beyond Deep Water Head. A high sea, rolling in from the northeast, had played under the ice; and this had gone on for three days—the seas running in and subsiding: all the while casting the ice ponderously against the rocks.
Heavy Arctic ice—fragments of many glacial bergs—had caught the lesser, more brittle drift-pans of the floe against the broken base and submerged face of Deep Water Cliff and ground them slowly to slush in the swells. There were six feet of this slush, perhaps—a depth of six feet and a width of thirty.
It was as coarse as cracked ice in a freezer.It was a quicksand. Should a man's leg go deep enough he would not be able to withdraw it; and once fairly caught—both feet gripped—he would inevitably drop through. It would be a slow and horrible descent—like sinking in a quicksand.
It was near dark. The snow—falling thicker—was fast narrowing the circle of vision.
"I might get across," said Doctor Luke.
"You'll not try, sir," Billy Topsail declared, positively. "You'll start back t' Candlestick Cove."
"I might——"
"You'll not!"
There was something in Billy Topsail's tone to make Doctor Luke lift his brows and stare.
"What's that?" said he, smiling grimly.
"I says you'll not try."
Doctor Luke laughed uneasily.
"No?"
"No, sir."
Billy Topsail was a big boy. Doctor Luke measured his length and breadth and power with new interest and recalled that he had always admired the lusty proportions of the lad.Decidedly—Billy Topsail was a big fellow! And Billy Topsail's intentions were plain.
"Now——" the Doctor began, argumentatively.
"'Tis no use, sir. I knows you."
Doctor Luke moved off a step. "But Billy, you see, my dear fellow——"
"No, sir!" Billy Topsail moved within reach.
"I'm quite sure——"
"No."
Doctor Luke stared at the breach of slush. He faced away, then, abruptly. "Wel-ll," he admitted, with a shrug, "no doubt you're right, Billy. I——"
In Which it Seems that an Axe and Terry Lute's Finger Are Surely to Come into Injurious Contact, and Terry Lute is Caught and Carried Bawling to the Block, While His Mother Holds the Pot of Tar
In Which it Seems that an Axe and Terry Lute's Finger Are Surely to Come into Injurious Contact, and Terry Lute is Caught and Carried Bawling to the Block, While His Mother Holds the Pot of Tar
InTom Lute's cottage beyond Come-Along Point of Amen Island they were ready for the operation. There was a thick, round billet of birch, upended in the middle of the kitchen floor, to serve as a block for the amputation; and the axe was sharp, at last—at hand, too, but concealed, for the moment, behind the pantry door—and a pot of tar was warming on the kitchen stove.
Sandy Lands had reported for duty, whom nothing but a sense of duty had drawn to a hand in the surgical assistance—a bit perturbed, as he contemplated the task of restraining the struggles of a violent little subject, whose temper he knew, but sturdy and resolved, his resolution substantiated by a sort of religious austerity.
Black Walt Anderson, a gigantic, phlegmatic fellow, who would have subdivided into half adozen little Terry Lutes, also awaited the signal to pounce upon the Little Fiddler of Amen Island, imprison his arms, confine his legs, subdue all his little struggles, in short, bear him to the block and flatten his hand and spread his fingers for the severing blow.
It was to be a simple operation—a swift descent of the axe and a quick application of hot tar and bandages to stifle the wound. And that was to be the end of the finger and the trouble.
There had been a good deal of trouble. Terry Lute's sore finger was a source of brutal agony. There had been many days of this pain—a throbbing torture in the finger and hand and arm. And Terry had practiced deception in an heroic degree.
No pain (said he); but, ah, well, a twinge, now an' again—but nothin' at all t' make a man complain. An' sure (said he), 'twas better all the while—improvin' every blessed minute, sir. A day more (said he) would see the boil yield t' mother's poultice; an' a fortnight would see un all healed up an' the finger able for labour again.
It was in the night that Terry could conceal the agony no longer—deep in the night, when his mother sat beside the cot; and then hewould crawl out of bed, stow his slender little body away in his mother's arms, put his head down and cry and moan without shame until he had exhausted himself and fallen into a fitful sleep.
No; it was no trifling agony for Terry Lute to withstand. And he knew all the while, moreover, that the cut of an axe—no more, it might be, than a flash—would eventually relieve him. Terry Lute was not afraid of the pain of the thing they wanted to do. That was not the inspiration of his infuriated rebellion.
There was nothing mistaken in the intention of the axe. It was neither cruel nor blundering.
Amen Island lies remote: the folk do for themselves—they are nearly sufficient to themselves, indeed, in all the affairs of life; and when they fail (they say) and sorrow comes of it—well, there is failure everywhere, too, and life leaves every man when the spirit is finished with its habitation. "I done the best I could!" It is epitaph honourable enough. There was no horror on Amen Island—no furious complaint of the wrongs of a social arrangement—when catastrophe came through lack of uncommon means to stave it off.
And so when Tom Lute told old Bob Likely that when he had a job to do he was accustomed to employ the best means at hand—he expressed in simple terms the lesson of his habitat. This affair of Terry Lute's finger was of gravest moment; had the finger gangrened—it must come off in haste, and the sooner the better; and an axe and a pot of tar were the serviceable instruments according to the teaching of all experience.
Doubtless doctors were better provided and more able; but as there was no doctor to be had, and as Terry Lute was loved and greatly desired in the flesh, and as he was apparently in peril of a sudden departure—and as he was in desperate pain—and as——
But Terry Lute would not have his finger off. From the corner, where he stood at bay, roaring in a way to silence the very gale that had now begun to shake the cottage, he ran to his mother's knee, as though for better harbour.
And there he sobbed his complaint.
"Ah, Terry, lad," his father pleaded; "'tis only a finger!"
"'Tis on my left hand!"
"You're not left-handed, son," Tom Luteargued, patiently. "You've no real need o' four fingers there. Why, sonny, boy, once I knowed a man——"
"'Tis one o' my fiddle fingers."
Tom Lute sighed. "Fiddle fingers, son!" said he. "Ah, now, boy! You've said that so often, an' so foolishly, that I——"
"I'll not have it off!"
"But——"
"Isn't nousein havin' it off," Terry complained, "an' I can't spare it. This here boil——"
"'Tisn't a boil, son. 'Tis mortification. An'——"
"'Tis not mortification."
Again Tom sighed.
"Is you afeared, Terry?" said he. "Surely you isn't a pullin' little coward, is you? A finger! 'Tis such a simple little thing t' suffer——"
"I'm not afeared neither!"
"Well, then——"
"You may cut any finger you likes off my right hand," Terry boasted, "an' I'll not whimper a peep."
"I don't want a finger off your right hand, Terry."
"I won't have it!"
"'Tis no pleasure t' me t'——"
"I won't have a finger off my left hand!"
"I tells you, Terry, you isn't left-handed. I've told you that a thousand times. What in the name o'——"
"I tells you I won't have it!"
Black Walt Anderson looked to Tom Lute for a signal. Sandy Lands rose.
"Now?" he seemed to inquire.
Tom Lute shook his head.
"That's the way we done aboard theRoyal Bloodhound," the Little Fiddler's grandfather put in. He began to pace the floor. The tap-tap of his wooden leg was furious and his voice was as gusty as the gale outside. "Now, you mark me!" he ran on. "We chopped Cap'n Sam Small's foot off with a axe an' plugged it with b'ilin' tar. 'Twas mortification. I knows mortification when I sees it. An' Sam Small got well."
He was bawling, by this time, like a skipper in a gale—being deaf, the old man was accustomed to raise his voice, a gradualcrescendo, until he had come as near hearing himself as possible.
"Yes, sir—you mark me! That's what we done aboard theRoyal Bloodhoundthe year I shipped for the seals along o' Small Sam Small. We chopped it clean off with a meat axe an' plugged it with b'ilin' tar. If Small Sam Small had clung t' that member for another day he would have died. Mark me! Small Sam Small would have been dropped over the side o' theRoyal Bloodhoundan' left t' shift for hisself in a sack an' a Union Jack!"
He paused before Terry Lute and shook a lean finger under the little boy's nose.
"Now," he roared, "you mark me!"
"I isn't aboard theRoyal Bloodhound!" Terry sobbed.
"Ah, Terry!" This was Terry's mother. She was crying bitterly. "You'll die an you don't have that finger off!"
"I'll die an I got to!"
"Oh, Terry, Terry!"
"I isn't afeared t' die."
"Ah, Terry, dear, whatever would I do——"
"I'll die afore I gives up one o' my fiddle fingers."
"But you isn't got——"
"Never you mind about that!"
"If you had——"
"You jus' wait till I grows up!"
Again Sandy Lands inquired for the signal. Tom Lute lifted a hand to forbid.
"Terry, son," said he, gravely, "once an' for all, now, will you——"
"No!" Terry roared.
"Oh, oh, Terry, dear!" the mother wailed, observing the preparations that were making behind Terry's back. "If you'd only——"
Terry screamed in a furious passion:
"Have done, woman! I tells you I won't have none o' my fiddle fingers cut off!"
It was the end. Tom Lute gave the signal. Sandy Lands and Black Walt Anderson pounced upon little Terry Lute and carried him bawling and struggling from his mother's knee towards the block of birch in the middle of the kitchen floor. Tom Lute stood waiting there with the axe.
As for Terry Lute's mother, she flew to the stove, tears streaming from her eyes, her mouth grim, and fetched the pot of tar. And then all at once the Little Fiddler of Amen Island wriggled out of the clutches of his captors—they were too tender with him—and dived under the kitchen table.
In Which Doctor Luke's Flesh Creeps, Billy Topsail Acts Like a Bob-Cat, and the Little Fiddler of Amen Island Tells a Secret
Confrontingthe slush of Deep Water Cove, with the finger of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island awaiting his ministration beyond, Doctor Luke had misled the faithful Billy Topsail into the assumption of his acquiescence. It was not in his mind to return to Candlestick Cove that night. It was in his mind to gain the shore and proceed upon his professional call. And there was reason in this. For when the group of Arctic ice—still rhythmically swinging in and out with the great seas from the open—drove down upon the broken base of Deep Water Cliff, it compressed the ice between.
At the moment of greatest compression the slush was reasonably solid ground. When the Arctic ice subsided with the wave, the slush expanded in the wider space it was then permitted to occupy. A man could cross—a light, agile man, daring the depth of the slush, might beable to cross—when the slush was compressed. No man could run all the way across. It must be in two advances. Midway he would be caught by the subsidence of the wave. From this he must preserve himself.
And from this—from dropping through the field of slush and having it close over his head—he might preserve himself by means of his gaff.
"Wel-ll," Doctor Luke had admitted, apparently resigned, "no doubt you're right, Billy. I——"
Now the Arctic ice was poised.
"Ay, sir. An' you're more reasonable than ever I knowed you t'——"
A sea was rolling in.
"Wel-ll," the Doctor drawled, "as I grow older——"
Then came the moment of advantage. Doctor Luke ran out on the slush before Billy Topsail could reach out a hand to restrain him. It was indiscreet. Doctor Luke had been too eager to escape—he had started too soon; the sea was not down—the slush was not squeezed tight. A foot sank to the ankle. Doctor Luke jerked it out The other foot went down to the calf of the leg. Doctor Luke jerked it—tugged it. It was fast.The slush, in increasing compression, had caught it. He must wait for the wave to subside.
His flesh crept with the horror of the thing. He was trapped—caught fast! A moment later the sea was in retreat from the cliff and the slush began rapidly to thin. Doctor Luke employed the stratagem that is familiar to the coast for dealing with such ice as the slush in which he was entrapped. He waited—alert. There would come a moment when the consistency of the ice would be so thin that he would drop through.
Precisely before that moment—when his feet were first free—he dropped flat on his gaff. Having in this way distributed his weight—avoided its concentration on a small area—he was borne up. And he withdrew his feet and waited for the sea to fall in again and compress the ice.
When the next wave fell in Billy Topsail started across the ice like a bob-cat.
Doctor Luke lay inert through two waves. When the third fell he jumped up and ran towards the base of Deep Water Cliff. Again the sea caught him unaware. His flesh was creeping again. Horror of the stuff underfoot—the treacherous insecurity of it—drove him. Theshore was close. He was too eager for the shore—he ran too far; and his foot went down again—foot and leg to the thigh. As instinctively he tried violently to extract the leg by stepping up on the other foot—that leg went down to the knee.
A fall to the arm-pits impended—a drop clean through and overhead. The drop would inevitably be the result of a flash of hesitation. Doctor Luke cried out. And as he cried he plunged forward—a swift, conscious effort to fall prone on his gaff. There was a blank. Nothing seemed to happen. He was amazed to discover that the gaff upheld him. It occurred to him, then, that his feet were trapped—that he could not withdraw his legs from the sucking slush.
Nor could he. They were caught. And he perceived that they were sinking deeper—that he was slowly slipping through the slush.
He was conscious of the night—the dark and snow and wind; and he fancied that he heard a voice of warning.
"Cotch hold——"
It was a voice.
"Cotch hold o' the gaff!"
Doctor Luke seized the end of Billy Topsail's gaff and drew himself out of the grip of theslush. When the sea came in again he jumped up and joined Billy Topsail on the broken base of Deep Water Cliff. He was breathing hard. He did not look back. Billy Topsail said that they had better make haste—that somebody would "cotch a death o' cold" if they did not make haste. And they made haste.
An hour or more later Doctor Luke, with Billy Topsail in his wake, thrust into Tom Lute's agitated kitchen and interrupted the amputation of the fiddle finger of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island with a "Well, well, well! What in the name of——" and stood staring—all dusted with snow and shivering and fairly gone purple with cold.
They had Terry Lute cornered, then—his back against the wall, his face horrified, his mouth wide open in a bellow of rage; and Sandy Lands and Black Walt Anderson were almost upon him—and Tom Lute was grimly ready with the axe and Terry Lute's mother was standing beside the round birch block with the pot of tar in her hands and her apron over her head.
Doctor Luke stood staring at all this—his mouth as wide open, because of a temporaryparalysis, due to his amazement, as Terry Lute's mouth was fallen in anger and terror. And it was not long after that—the Doctor being warm and dry, then, and the kitchen quiet and expectant, and Tom Lute and Terry Lute's mother exhibiting relief and the keenest sort of interest—that the Doctor took Terry Lute's fiddle finger in his hand.
Then he began to prepare the finger for the healing thrust of a lance.
"I'm going to cure it, Terry," said he.
"That's good, sir. I'm wonderful glad t' save that finger."
"You cherish that finger, Terry?"
"I does that, sir! I've need of it, sir."
The Doctor was not attending. His attention was on the lance and its object. "Mm-m," he ran on, absently, to make distracting conversation. "You've need of it, eh?"
"'Tis one o' my fiddle fingers, sir."
"Mm-m? Ah! The Little Fiddler of Amen Island! Well, Terry, lad, you'll be able to play your fiddle again in a fortnight."
Terry grinned.
"No, sir," said he. "I won't be playin' my fiddle by that time."
The Doctor looked up in astonishment.
"Yes, you will," he flashed, sharply.
"No, sir."
"But I tell you——"
"I isn't got no fiddle."
"What!"
"All I got now," said the Little Fiddler of Amen Island, "is a jew's-harp.But jus' you wait till I grows up!"
Billy Topsail had broken into smothered laughter; and Doctor Luke, laughing, too, had already determined that the Little Fiddler of Amen Island should not have to wait until he grew up for his first violin (which came to pass in due course)—this hearty mirth was in progress when there was a loud knock on the door, a trample of feet in the entry, a draught of cold air blowing through the open door, and Billy Topsail had the surprise of his not uneventful career. He stared, helpless with amazement, incredulity, delight; and for a moment he could do nothing more worthy of his manners than keep on staring, as though he had clapped eyes on a ghost.
Archie Armstrong had come in.
"Archie!" Doctor Luke exclaimed.
They shook hands. But Archie Armstrong's eyes were not on Doctor Luke. Doctor Luke might be met anywhere at any time. It was not surprising to find him on Amen Island. Archie was staring at Billy Topsail.
"Ye little lobster!" said he, at last, grinning.
"Whoop!" Billy yelled. "'Tis you!"
They flew at each other. It was like a wrestling bout. Each in the bear-like embrace of the other, they staggered over the floor and eventually fell down exhausted. And then they got up and shook hands in what Archie called "the regular" way.
In Which Sir Archibald Armstrong's Son and Heir is Presented for the Reader's Inspection, Highly Complimented and Recommended by the Author, and the Thrilling Adventure, Which Archie and Billy are Presently to Begin, Has its Inception on the Departure of Archie From St. John's Aboard the "Rough and Tumble"
In Which Sir Archibald Armstrong's Son and Heir is Presented for the Reader's Inspection, Highly Complimented and Recommended by the Author, and the Thrilling Adventure, Which Archie and Billy are Presently to Begin, Has its Inception on the Departure of Archie From St. John's Aboard the "Rough and Tumble"
Aseverybody in St. John's knew very well (and a good many folk of the outports, to say nothing of a large proportion of the sealing fleet), Archie Armstrong was the son of Sir Archibald Armstrong, who was used to calling himself a fish-dealer, but was, in fact, a deal more than that. Directly or indirectly, Sir Archibald's business interests touched every port in Newfoundland, every cove of the Labrador, the markets of Spain and Portugal, of the West Indies and the South American Republics.
His fishing schooners went south to the Banks and north to the gray, cold seas off Cape Chidley; his whalers gave chase in the waters of the Gulf and the Straits; his trading schooners ran from port to port of all that rugged coast; his barquescarried cod and salmon and oil to all the markets of the world. And when the ice came down from the north in the spring of the year, his sealing vessels sailed from St. John's on the great adventure.
Archie was Sir Archibald's son. There was no doubt about that. He was a fine, hearty lad—robust, as every young Newfoundlander should be; straight, agile, alert, with head carried high; merry, quick-minded, ready-tongued, fearless in wind and high sea, as a good many adventures with Billy Topsail had proved. His hair was tawny, his eyes as blue as Billy Topsail's, and as wide and as clear; and his face was broad and good-humoured.
And (every lad has his amiable weakness) Archie was something of a dandy in his dress—a tailored, speckless, polished, fashionable person, to whom the set of his trousers and the knot in his cravat were matters of concern. All in all, from his soles to his crown, and from his rosy skin to the innermost recesses of his good red heart, he was very much of a brave, kindly, self-respecting man.
Billy Topsail liked him. That is putting it mildly. And Archie Armstrong liked Billy Topsail. That, too, is putting it mildly. The boys had been through some hard places together, as I have elsewhere recorded; and they had come through the good and the bad of their undertakings with mutual respect and liking. Nobody could help liking Billy Topsail—he was a courageous, decent, jolly, friendly soul; and for the same reasons nobody could help liking Archie Armstrong. It was a good partnership—this friendship between the Colonial knight's son and heir and the outport fisherman's lad. And both had profited.
Billy had gained in manners and knowledge of the world, to describe the least gain that he won; and Archie had gained in health and courage and the wisdom of the coast. But that was all. Rich as Archie's prospects were, and as great the wealth and generosity of his father, Billy Topsail had never anticipated a material advantage; and had one been offered him, it would not have been accepted except on terms of a description not to wound Billy Topsail's self-respect.
Well, what sort of an education had Archie Armstrong had? It is best described in the incident that sent him off on his first sealing voyage,as elsewhere set down. It was twilight of a blustering February day. Sir Archibald Armstrong sat alone in his office, with his chair drawn close to the low, broad window, which overlooked the wharves and ice-strewn harbour beyond; and while the fire roared and the wind drove the snow against the panes, he lost himself in profound meditation.
He stared absently at the swarm of busy men—now almost hidden in the dusk and storm—and at the lights of the sealing fleet, which lay there fitting out for the voyage to the drift-ice of the north; but no sound of the activity on dock or deck could disturb the quiet of the little office where the fire blazed and crackled and the snow fell softly against the window panes.
By and by Archie came in.
"Come, son," said Sir Archibald, presently, "let us watch them fitting out the fleet."
They walked to the window, Sir Archibald with his arm over Archie's shoulder; and in the dusk outside, the wharves and warehouses and ships told the story of the wealth of Sir Archibald's firm.
"It will all be yours some day," said Sir Archibald, gravely. After a pause, he continued: "The firm has had an honourable career through three generations of our family. My father gave it to me with a spotless reputation. More than that, with the business he gave me the faith of every man, woman and child of the outports. The firm has dealt with its fishermen and sealers as man with man, not as the exploiter with the exploited. It has never wronged, or oppressed, or despised them.
"In September you are going to an English public school, and thence to an English University, when the time comes. You will meet with new ideals. The warehouses and ships, the fish and fat, will not mean so much to you. You will forget. It may be even—for you are something of a dandy, you know—that you will be ashamed to acknowledge that your father is a dealer in fish and seal-oil; and that——"
Archie drew breath to protest.
"But I want you to remember," Sir Archibald went on, lifting his hand. "I want you to know a man when you meet one, whatever the clothes he wears. The men upon whom the fortunes of this firm are founded are true men. They are strong, brave and true. Their work is toilsome and perilous, and their lives are not unused todeprivation; but they are cheerful, and independent, and fearless, through it all—stout hearts, every one of them.
"They deserve respectful and generous treatment at the hands of their employers. For that reason I want you to know them more intimately—to know them as shipmates know one another—that you may be in sympathy with them. I am confident that you will respect them, because I know that you love all manly qualities. And so for your good, and the good of the men, and the good of the firm, I have decided that——"
"That I may go sealing?" cried Archie.
"That you may go sealing."
Archie had gone sealing. And the adventure had made of him the man that he was.
Archie Armstrong had gone then to an English public school, having made the acquaintance of Billy Topsail on that first voyage, where the friendship had been founded in peril and a narrow escape. And he had come back unspoiled; and he had adventured with Billy Topsail again, and he had gone to England and returned to Newfoundland once more. In St. John's, with an English tutor, because of the illness of hismother, who had by that time recovered, he pleaded with Sir Archibald to be permitted once more to sail with the fleet.
There was objection. Archie was importunate. Sir Archibald relented and gave a reluctant consent. And it was determined that Archie should be shipped with Cap'n Saul Galt, commanding theRough and Tumble, a stout ship, well manned, and, in the hands of Cap'n Saul, as safe a berth for a lad as any ship of the fleet could provide. That Archie was delighted goes without saying; and that he was all aflame with interest in the movements of the ice—inquisitive and talkative—goes without saying too.
As a matter of fact, a man might hear what he liked on the water-front about the movements of the ice. In the gathering places it was just the same. There were rumours of the ice all the way from the Straits of Belle Isle and the Labrador coast to the Funks and Cape Bonavist'. It was even held by some old sealing dogs that the floes had gone to the east in a spurt of westerly weather and would be found far to sea in the southerly drift.
All this while old Cap'n Saul, of theRough and Tumble, with Archie usually at his elbow,cocked an ear and kept his counsel, putting two and two together, and arriving at the correct result of four, according to the old cock's habit.
"The ice is inside the Funks, Archie," said he. "I'll twist theRough and Tumblet' the west an' shake off the fleet in the night. Havin' clung with profit t' my sealin' wisdom these ten sealin' seasons," he went on, "they'll follow me an they're able, an' pester my fellows an' steal my panned fat. They're all bit mad by the notion that the ice drove t' the east with the nor'west puff an' whisper o' wind we had. I'll fiddle their wits this year—mark me!"
"Whisperof wind?" Archie exclaimed. "'Twas a wholegaleof wind!"
"Pt!"
"And the icediddrive to the east."
"Pt!" says Cap'n Saul. "You'll never make a sealin' skipper, Archie. I smells the ice off the Horse Islands."
It was foul weather all the way from St. John's to the floes. The fleet sailed into a saucy head-wind and a great slosh of easterly sea. It was a fair start and no favour, all managed by the law; the fat on the floes was for the first crews of the fleet to find and slaughter it. And there was amighty crowd on the water-front to wish the fleet well; and there was a vast commotion, too—cheering and waving and the popping of guns.
At sea it was a helter-skelter race for the ice. Cap'n Saul touched up theRough and Tumblebeyond St. John's Narrows; and the ship settled to her work, in that rough and tumble of black water, with a big white bone in her teeth—shook her head and slapped her tail and snouted her way along to the northeast. A whisp of fog came with the night. It was thick weather. But Cap'n Saul drove northeast, as before—slap into a smothering sea; and by this the fleet, tagging behind, was befooled and misled.
After dark, Cap'n Saul doused the lights and switched full steam to the west; and when day broke theRough and Tumblewas alone, come what might of her isolation—and come it did, in due course, being all a-brew for Cap'n Saul and crew, even then, in the northwest.
As for the fleet, it was off on fools' business in the bare seas to the east.
In Which the Crew of the "Rough and Tumble" is Harshly Punished, and Archie Armstrong, Having Pulled the Wool Over the Eyes of Cap'n Saul, Goes Over the Side to the Floe, Where He Falls in with a Timid Lad, in Whose Company, with Billy Topsail Along, He is Some Day to Encounter His Most Perilous Adventure
In Which the Crew of the "Rough and Tumble" is Harshly Punished, and Archie Armstrong, Having Pulled the Wool Over the Eyes of Cap'n Saul, Goes Over the Side to the Floe, Where He Falls in with a Timid Lad, in Whose Company, with Billy Topsail Along, He is Some Day to Encounter His Most Perilous Adventure
Well, now, two days later, near dusk, with Archie Armstrong on the bridge, theRough and Tumblewas crawling northwest through the first ice of the floe. An hour of drab light was left of the day—no more. And it was mean ice roundabout—small pans and a naughty mess of slush. There was a hummock or two, it might be, and a clumper or two, as well; and a man might travel that ice well enough, sore pinched by need to do so. But it was foul footing for the weight of a full-grown man, and tricky for the feet of a lad; and a man must dance a crooked course, and caper along, or perish—leap from a block that would tip and sink under his feet to a pan that would bear himup until he had time and the wit to leap again, and so come, at last, by luck and good conduct, to a pan stout enough for pause.
It was mean ice, to be sure. Yet there was a fine sign of seals drifting by. Here and there was an old dog hood on a hummock; and there and here were a harp and a whitecoat on a flat pan. But the orders of Cap'n Saul were to "leave the swiles be"—to "keep the mouths o' the guns shut" until theRough and Tumblehad run up to the herd that was coming down with the floe.
"I'll have no swiles slaughtered in play," he declared.
A gun popped forward. It was from the midst of a crowd. And Cap'n Saul leaned over the bridge-rail.
"Who done that?" he demanded.
There was no answer.
"Mm-m?" Cap'n Saul repeated. "Who done that?"
No answer.
"A dog hood lyin' dead off the port bow!" said Cap'n Saul. "Who killed un?"
Still no answer. And Cap'n Saul didn't ask again. Forthwith he stopped the ship.
"Mister Knibbs, sir," said he, to the mate, "send the crew after that dead hood."
The mate jumped.
"Cap'n Saul, sir," he replied, his eyes popping, "the ice——"
"Sir?"
"This here ice, sir——"
"Sir?"
"This here——"
"Sir?"
"This——"
"Mister Knibbs, sir," said Cap'n Saul, dryly, "this here ice is fit enough for any crew that I commands. An' if the crew isn't fit for the ice, sir, I'll soon have un so, ecod! Put un over the side. We'll waste no swiles on this v'y'ge."
"All hands, sir?"
"All hands over the side, sir, t' fetch that dead hood aboard."
Archie put in:
"May I go, Cap'n Saul?"
"No!"
"Cap'n Saul," Archie began to wheedle, "I'm so wanting to——"
"No, sir."
"I'm just crazy to——"
"'Tis no fit place for you."
"But——"
Cap'n Saul changed his mind all at once. He sent a call for Archie's old and well-tried friend, Bill o' Burnt Bay.
"Stand by the lad," said he.
"Ay, sir."
Archie left the bridge with Bill o' Burnt Bay, with whom he had sailed before. And over the side they went. And over the side went the crew for punishment. There were more than two hundred men. And not a man was spared. Cap'n Saul sent the ship's doctor after malingerers, and the mate and the haft of a sealing gaff after lurkers; and he kept them capering and balancing for dear life on that dirty floe, sopping and shivering, all in a perilous way, until dusk was in the way of catching some of them unaware.
It was then that Archie and Bill o' Burnt Bay fell in with old Jonathan Farr of Jolly Harbour. Bill o' Burnt Bay knew the old man well. And he was shocked to find him cavorting over that foul, tricky ice, with the thin blood and dry old bones he had to serve his need—a gray old doglike Jonathan Farr of Jolly Harbour, past his full labour these years gone by, gone stiff and all unfit for the labour and chances of the ice.
Still, the old man was blithe enough, as Bill marvelled to see. His eye was lit up with a flicker of fun, sparkling, somehow, through the rheum of age; and his words were mixed with laughter. They came to rest on a pan—the four of them together; old Jonathan Farr and Bill and Archie and a little lad. And Archie marked this in a glance—that the lad, whoever he was, was out of heart with the work he was at.
A good deal was to flow from that meeting; and Billy Topsail was to have a part in it all.
In Which a Little Song-Maker of Jolly Harbour Enlists the Affection of the Reader
In Which a Little Song-Maker of Jolly Harbour Enlists the Affection of the Reader
"Mygran'son, Bill," said Jonathan.
Archie pitied the lad—a white, soft-eyed little chap, all taut and woeful with anxiety.
"He's young for the ice," Bill observed.
"A young dog," Jonathan replied, "masters his tricks with ease."
Again Archie pitied the little fellow.
"Too young," said Bill, "for man's labour like this."
"He'll l'arn all the better for his youth."
"Time enough," Bill insisted, "two years hence."
"Ah, well, Bill," said Jonathan, then, "I wants t' see my gran'son fit an' able for his labour afore I goes my way." And he clapped the lad on the back. "Eh, Toby?" said he, heartily.
The lad was grave and mannerly.
"Ay, gran'pa," said he; "you're wonderful careful o' me, you is!"
"That I is, Toby!"
"Yes, siree!"
"I bet I is careful o' you!" Jonathan declared. "An' I'll keep on bein' so. Eh, Toby?"
The lad turned to Archie.
"I'm havin' a wonderful bringin' up, sir," said he. "My gran'pa is wonderful careful o' me. With the wonderful bringin' up I'm havin' I ought t' turn out a wonderful clever man."
"You will!" Archie replied.
"That ye will!" said Bill o' Burnt Bay.
"Pray God," said the lad, "I'm worthy!"
Jonathan gave the lad a little clap on the back. Archie thought it was to thank him for the expression of confidence. And it made the lad squirm and grin like a patted puppie.
"What you think of un, Bill?" Jonathan inquired.
It was a wistful question. Jonathan seemed to want a word of praise. And Bill gave it with all his heart.
"Big as a whale!" said he.
"He've the hull of a young whale," said Jonathan; "an' afore this v'y'ge is out he'll have the heart of a bear."
Toby chuckled.
"Ay—maybe!" said he.
"You will!" Archie declared.
Well, now, you must know that it is not uncommon to fall in with a timid lad on the coast: a lad given a great deal to music and the making of ballads, and to the telling of tales, too. Such folk are timid when young. It is no shame. By and by they harden to their labour, the softer aspiration forgotten. And then they laugh at what they used to do. I have sometimes thought it a pity. But that's no matter now.
Bill o' Burnt Bay knew this lad—knew his weird, sad songs, and had bellowed them in the cabin of theCash Down—