Part 28 (2/2)
The manner of asking the question was most indignant, not to say threatening; and a gasp and heavy frown accompanied it. By this I knew that the doctor was about to make sport for Martha and Jimmie and Sammy Jutt (as their names turned out to be): which often he did for children by pretending to be in a great rage; and invariably they found it delicious entertainment, for however fiercely he bl.u.s.tered, his eyes twinkled most merrily all the time, so that one was irresistibly moved to chuckle with delight at the sight of them, no matter how suddenly or how terribly he drew down his brows.
”I like kids,” said he, with a smack of the lips. ”I eat 'em!”
Gurgles of delight escaped from the little Jutts--and each turned to the other: the eyes of all dancing.
”And how are _you_?” the doctor demanded.
His fierce little glance was indubitably directed at little Sammy, as though, G.o.d save us! the lad had no right to be anything _but_ well, and ought to be, and should be, birched on the instant if he had the temerity to admit the smallest ache or pain from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. But Sammy looked frankly into the flas.h.i.+ng eyes, grinned, chuckled audibly, and lisped that he was better.
”Better?” growled the doctor, searching Sammy's white face and skinny body as though for evidence to the contrary. ”I'll attend to _you_!”
Thereupon Skipper Jonas took us to the shed, where we laid off our packs and were brushed clean of snow; and by that time Matilda Jutt, the mother of Martha and Jimmie and Sammy, had spread the table with the best she had--little enough, G.o.d knows! being but bread and tea--and was smiling beyond. Presently there was nothing left of the bread and tea; and then we drew up to the fire, where the little Jutts still sat, regarding us with great interest. And I observed that Martha Jutt held a letter in her hand: whereupon I divined precisely what our arrival had interrupted, for I was Labrador born, and knew well enough what went on in the kitchens of our land of a Christmas Eve.
”And now, my girl,” said the doctor, ”what's what?”
By this extraordinary question--delivered, as it was, in a manner that called imperatively for an answer--Martha Jutt was quite nonplussed: as the doctor had intended she should be.
”What's what?” repeated the doctor.
Quite startled, Martha lifted the letter from her lap. ”He's not comin', zur,” she gasped, for lack of something better.
”You're disappointed, I see,” said the doctor. ”So he's not coming?”
”No, zur--not this year.”
”That's too bad. But you mustn't mind it, you know--not for an instant.
What's the matter with him?”
”He've broke his leg, zur.”
”What!” cried the doctor, restored of a sudden to his natural manner.
”Poor fellow! How did he come to do that?”
”Catchin' one o' they wild deer, zur.”
”Catching a deer!” the doctor exclaimed. ”A most extraordinary thing. He was a fool to try it. How long ago?”
”Sure, it can't be more than half an hour; for he've----”
The doctor jumped up. ”Where is he?” he demanded, with professional eagerness. ”It can't be far. Davy, I must get to him at once. I must attend to that leg. Where is he?”
”Narth Pole, zur,” whispered Sammy.
”Oh-h-h!” cried the doctor; and he sat down again, and pursed his lips, and winked at Sammy in a way most peculiar. ”I _see_!”
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