LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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