Doctor Luke of the Labrador | Page 9

hardly
mitigated misery until the kindlier spring days should once again invite
them to the coast. My father, the only trader on forty miles of our coast,
as always dealt them salt beef and flour and tea with a free hand, until,
at last, the storehouses were swept clean of food, save sufficient for our
own wants: his great heart hopeful that the catch of next season, and the

honest hearts of the folk, and the mysterious favor of the Lord, would
all conspire to repay him. And so they departed, bag and baggage,
youngsters and dogs; and the waste of our harbour and of the infinite
roundabout was left white and silent, as of death itself. But we dwelt on
in our house under the sheltering Watchman; for my father, being a
small trader, was better off than they--though I would not have you
think him of consequence elsewhere--and had builded a stout house,
double-windowed, lined with felt and wainscotted with canvas, so that
but little frost formed on the walls of the living rooms, and that only in
the coldest weather.
"'Tis cozy enough," said my father, chucking my mother under the chin,
"even for a maid a man might cotch up Boston way!"
Presently came Skipper Tommy Lovejoy by rollicking dog-team from
the Lodge to inquire after my mother's health--to cheer us, it may be,
I'm thinking, with his hearty way, his vast hope, his odd fancies, his
ruddy, twinkling face. Most we laughed when he described his plan
(how seriously conceived there was no knowing) for training whales to
serve as tugboats in calms and adverse winds. It appeared, too, that a
similar recital had been trying to the composure of old Tom Tot, of our
harbour, who had searched the Bible for seven years to discover therein
a good man of whom it was said that he laughed, and, failing utterly,
had thereupon vowed never again to commit the sin of levity.
"Sure, I near fetched un," said Skipper Tommy, gleefully, "with me
whales. I come near makin' Tom Tot break that scandalous vow, zur,
indeed I did! He got wonderful purple in the face, an' choked in a
fearsome way, when I showed un my steerin' gear for the beast's tail,
but, as I'm sad t' say, zur, he managed t' keep it in without bustin'. But
I'll get un yet, zur--oh, ay, zur--just leave un t' me! Ecod! zur, I'm
thinkin' he'll capsize with all hands when I tells un I'm t' have a
wheel-house on the forward deck o' that wha-a-ale!"
But the old man soon forgot all about his whales, as he had forgotten to
make out the strange way the Lord had discovered to fasten His stars to
the sky; moved by a long contemplation of my mother's frailty, he had
a nobler inspiration.

"'Tis sad, lass," he said, his face aquiver with sympathy, "t' think that
we've but one doctor t' cure the sick, an' him on the mail-boat. 'Tis
wonderful sad t' think o' that! 'Tis a hard case," he went on, "but if a
man only thunk hard enough he'd find a way t' mend it. Sure, what
ought t' be mended can be mended. 'Tis the way o' the world. If a man
only thinks hard an' thinks sensible, he'll find a way, zur, every time.
'Tis easy t' think hard, but 'tis sometimes hard," he added, "t' think t' the
point."
We were silent while he continued lost in deep and puzzled thought.
"Ecod!" he burst out. "I got it!"
"Have you, now?" cried my father, half amused, half amazed.
"Just this minute, zur," said the skipper, in a glow of delighted
astonishment. "It come t' me all t' oncet."
"An' what is it?"
"'Tis a sort o' book, zur!"
"A book?"
"Ay, 'tis just a book. Find out all the cures in the world an' put un in a
book. Get the doctor-women's, an' the healers', an' the real doctor's, an'
put un right in a book. Has you got the dip-theria? Ask the book what t'
do. 'Dip-theria?' says the book t' you. 'Well, that's sad. Tie a split
herring round your neck.' S'pose you got the salt-water sores. What do
you do, then? Why, turn t' the book. 'Oh, 'tis nothin' t' cure that,' says
the book. 'Wear a brass chain on your wrist, lad, an' you'll be troubled
no more.' Take it, now, when you got blood-poison in the hand. What is
you t' do, you wants t' know? 'Blood-poison in the hand?' says the book.
'Good gracious, that's awful! Cut off your hand.' 'Twould be a
wonderful good work," the skipper concluded, "t' make a book like
that!" It appeared to me that it would.
"I wonder," the skipper went on, staring