The Doctor : a Tale of the Rockies | Page 7

brought the baby, I see, Charley, me boy," shouted Tom Magee,
a big, good-natured son of Erin, the richness of whose brogue twenty
years of life in Canada had failed to impoverish.
"We could hardly leave the baby at home to-day," replied the miller, as
with tender care he handed the green bag containing his precious violin
to his wife.
"No, indeed, Mr. Boyle," replied Mr. McLeod. "The girls yonder would
hardly forgive us if Charley Boyle's fiddle were not to the fore. You'll
find some oats in the granary, Barney. Come along, Mrs. Boyle. The
wife will be glad of your help to keep those wild colts in order yonder,

eh, Margaret, lassie?"
"Indeed, it is not Margaret Robertson that will be needing to be kept in
order," replied Mrs. Boyle.
"Don't you be too sure of that, Mrs. Boyle," replied Mr. McLeod. "A
girl with an eye and a chin like that may break through any time, and
then woe betide you."
"Then I warn you, don't try the curb on me," said Margaret, springing
lightly over the wheel and turning away with Mrs. Boyle toward the
house, which was humming with that indescribable but altogether
bewitching medley of sounds that only a score or two of girls
overflowing with life can produce.
"Come along, Charley," roared Magee. "We're waitin' to make ye the
boss."
"All right, Tom," replied the little man, with a quiet chuckle. "If you
make me the boss, here's my orders, Up you get yourself and take hold
of the gang. What do you say, men?"
"Ay, that's it." "Tom it is." "Jump in, Tom," were the answering shouts.
"Aw now," said Tom, "there's better than me here. Take Big Angus
there. He's the man fer ye! Or what's the matter wid me frind, Rory
Ross? It's the foine boss he'd make fer yez! Sure, he'll put the fire intil
ye!"
There was a general laugh at this reference to the brilliant colour of
Rory's hair and face.
"Never you mind Rory Ross, Tom Magee," said the fiery-headed,
fiery-hearted little Highlander. "When he's wanted, ye'll not find him
far away, I'se warrant ye."
There was no love lost between the two men. Both were framers, both
famous captains, and more than once had they led the opposing forces

at raisings. The awkward silence following Rory's hot speech was
relieved by Charley Boyle's ready wit.
"We'll divide the work, boys," he said. "Some men do the liftin' and
others the yellin'. Tom and me'll do the yellin'."
A roar of laughter rose at Tom's expense, whose reputation as a worker
was none too brilliant.
"All right then, boys," roared Tom. "Ye'll have to take it. Git togither
an' quit yer blowin'." He cast an experienced eye over the ground where
the huge timbers were strewn about in what to the uninitiated would
seem wild confusion.
"Them's the sills," he cried. "Where's the skids?"
"Right under yer nose, Tom," said the framer quietly.
"Here they are, lads. Git up thim skids! Now thin, fer the sills. Grab
aholt, min, they're not hot! All togither-r-r--heave! Togither-r-r--heave!
Once more, heave! Walk her up, boys! Walk her up! Come on, Angus!
Where's yer porridge gone to? Move over, two av ye! Don't take
advantage av a little man loike that!" Angus was just six feet four.
"Now thin, yer pikes! Shove her along! Up she is! Steady! Cant her
over! How's that, framer? More to the east, is it? Climb up on her, ye
cats, an' dig in yer claws! Now thin, east wid her! Togither-r-r--heave!
Aw now, where are ye goin'? Don't be too rambunctious! Ye'll be afther
knockin' a hole in to-morrow mornin'. Back a little now! Whoa! How's
that, framer? Will that suit yer riverence? All right. Now thin, the nixt!
Look lively there! The gurls are comin' down to pick the winners, an a
small chance there'll be fer some of yez."
And so with this running fire of exhortation, more or less pungent, the
sills were got in place upon the walls, pinned and spliced.
"Now thin, min fer the bints!"
The "bents" were the cross sections of heavy square timbers which,

fastened together with cross ties, formed the framework of the barn.
Dividing his men into groups, the bents were put together on the barn
floor, and, one by one, raised into their places, each one being firmly
joined to the one previously erected.
"Mind yer braces, now, an' yer pins!" admonished Tom. "We don't
want no slitherin' timbers round here when we get into the ruction a
little later on!"
In spite of all Tom's tumultuous vocal energy, it was nearly five before
the last bent was reached. One by one they had fitted into their places,
but not without some few hitches, each of