Part 21 (1/2)

”'Tis a wild night,” said I: in my heart doubting--and that with shame--that the doctor would venture out upon the open sea in a gale of wind.

”'Tis _not_ very civil,” said the skipper frankly. ”I'm free t' say,” in a drawl, ”that 'tis--well--rather--dirty.”

”An' he isn't got used t' sailin' yet. But----”

”No?” in mild wonder. ”Isn't he, now? Well, we got a stout little skiff.

Once she gets past the Thirty Devils, she'll maybe make Wreck Cove, all right--if she's handled proper. Oh, she'll maybe make it if----”

”Davy!” my sister called from above. ”Do you take the men through t' the kitchen. I'll rouse the doctor an' send the maids down t' make tea.”

”Well, now, thank you kindly, miss,” Skipper Tom called up to the landing. ”That's wonderful kind.”

It was a familiar story--told while the sleepy maids put the kettle on the fire and the fury of the gale increased. 'Twas the schooner _Lucky Fisherman_, thirty tons, Tom Lisson master, hailing from Burnt Harbour of the Newfoundland Green Bay, and fis.h.i.+ng the Labrador at Wreck Cove, with a tidy catch in the hold and four traps in the water. There had been a fine run o' fish o' late; an' Bill Sparks, the splitter--with a brood of ten children to grow fat or go hungry on the venture--labouring without sleep and by the light of a flaring torch, had stabbed his right hand with a fish bone. The old, old story--now so sadly threadbare to me--of ignorance and uncleanliness! The hand was swollen to a wonderful size and grown wonderful angry--the man gone mad of pain--the crew contemplating forcible amputation with an axe. Wonderful sad the mail-boat doctor wasn't nowhere near! Wonderful sad if Bill Sparks must lose his hand! Bill Sparks was a wonderful clever hand with the splittin'-knife--able t' split a wonderful sight o' fish a minute.

Wonderful sad if Bill Sparks's family was to be throwed on the gov'ment all along o' Bill losin' his right hand! Wonderful sad if poor Bill Sparks----

The doctor entered at that moment. ”Who is asking for me?” he demanded, sharply.

”Well,” Skipper Tom drawled, rising, ”we was thinkin' we'd sort o' like t' see the doctor.”

”I am he,” the doctor snapped. ”Yes?” inquiringly.

”We was wonderin', doctor,” Skipper Tom answered, abashed, ”what you'd charge t' go t' Wreck Cove an'--an'--well, use the knife on a man's hand.”

”Charge? Nonsense!”

”We'd like wonderful well,” said the skipper, earnestly, ”t' have you----”

”But--_to-night_!”

”You see, zur,” said the skipper, gently, ”he've wonderful pain, an'

he've broke everything breakable that we got, an' we've got un locked in the fo'c's'le, an'----”

”Where's Wreck Cove?”

”'Tis t' the s'uth'ard, zur,” one of the men put in. ”Some twelve miles beyond the Thirty Devils.”

The doctor opened the kitchen door and stepped out. There was no doubt about the weather. A dirty gale was blowing. Wind and rain drove in from the black night; and, under all the near and petty noises, sounded the great, deep roar of breakers.

”Hear that?” he asked, excitedly, closing the door against the wind.

”Ay,” the skipper admitted; ”as I was tellin' the young feller, it _isn't_ so _very_ civil.”

”Civil!” cried the doctor.

”No; not so civil that it mightn't be a bit civiller; but, now----”

”And twelve miles of open sea!”

”No, zur--no; not accordin' t' my judgment. Eleven an' a half, zur, would cover it.”