Grit A-Plenty Part 4

Now, as Doctor Joe paced the beach, he was thinking of these things and looking in retrospection upon his own life. What a wreck he had made of it! Once he had all but gained his life's ambition, and a n.o.ble ambition it was. Through years of toil and tireless effort he had ascended the ladder of attainment. He had reached a high place in the world. In those days he was strong and able and self-reliant. The top round of the high ladder which he had climbed so tediously was within his grasp. Then came a day when he lost his balance and slipped and fell to the very bottom. In an hour all that he had worked for and hoped for and won was lost, and with it his courage and ambition.

Doctor Joe, contemplating his past and reviewing the train of circ.u.mstances which had ended his career, showered upon himself bitter denunciation and condemnation. He had indulged in appet.i.tes which had seemed innocent and harmless enough at first, but which had gradually and insidiously wormed their way into his soul until they had gained possession of him and had become his master. Then they had mercilessly ruined him and wrecked his life. Even the little fortune he had acc.u.mulated was lost. If he had only clung to that, at least, he would now be in position to meet the expense of Jamie's necessary surgical operation.

"Oh G.o.d!" he moaned. "This boy's future and happiness are in my hands!

What can I do? What can the impotent wreck that I am, do?"

What, indeed, could Doctor Joe do? He was so indifferent a trapper that his earnings barely served to supply him with the ordinary comforts and necessities of life. The journey to New York would be an expensive one, and there appeared to him no other way by which Jamie's sight could be saved.

Through the mist of departed years Doctor Joe turned back in fancy to his own boyhood home. He saw his father's house, where he had grown to young manhood, and had planned the great things he was to do in the world. That was when life and the world with all their possibilities lay before him. Now they were behind him. There were no hopes or prospects for the future beyond a hand-to-mouth living from day to day, with a gray shadow upon the past.

He saw the path leading up from the village street to the door of his father's cottage, and the green, well-kept lawn on either side, and his mother's flower beds which she loved so well and nurtured with her own dear hands. He was there again in fancy. An odor of roses and sweet peas and honeysuckles came to his nostrils. He could see the fat, saucy robins hopping about upon the gra.s.s. And there was his mother at the door! How gentle and loving she always was. How she used to tuck him into bed and kiss him good night, when he was little. What plans she built for him, and how she always told him that he must be a generous and n.o.ble man when he grew up.

And then he pa.s.sed on to the years when he helped his father, after school hours, in the little store around the corner, and the terrible day when his father died quickly, to be soon followed by his mother.

How desolate the world seemed then! What a lonely struggle lay before him!

And when his father's estate was settled, and the store and the home were sold, and he left the village, he had barely enough money in his pocket to meet his first year's expenses at college. But he had vowed to make his way, as his mother had wished, and also to be her ideal of a man.

The years that followed were years of struggle, for it was not easy with bare hands to finish his education. But in those days he had brains and hope and courage, and the basic tenacity that will not surrender. And he was inspired in those early years by a profound belief that his mother was near him. He could not see her, but her spirit walked with him and watched over him. It gave him courage to feel her near him, and kept him straight when he was tempted to do wrong, for he would permit himself then to do nothing of which his mother would disapprove.

But somehow, later on in life, he had drifted away from her. He did not think of her so often, and with pa.s.sing 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 sh.o.r.e.

"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 Sat.u.r.days with you if you like."

"Will you, now? Will you do that?" asked Thomas eagerly.

"Yes," a.s.sured 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 fort.i.tude 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 mola.s.ses 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, _what_ever," persisted David, eagerly.

"I'm not sayin' you couldn't tend th' traps, lad," a.s.sured 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."