_In Which Bob Likely, the Mail-Man, Interrupts Doctor Luke's
Departure, in the Nick of Time, with an Astonishing Bit of News, and
the Ice of Ships' Run Begins to Move to Sea in a Way to Alarm the
Stout Hearted_
Doctor Luke, having finished his professional round of the Candlestick
cottages in good time, harnessed his dogs, with the help of Billy
Topsail, soon after noon next day. Evidently the folk of Amen Island
were well. They had been frivolous, no doubt--but had not been caught at
it. Amen Island was to be omitted. Doctor Luke was ready for the trail
to Poor Luck Harbour on the way south. And he shouted a last good-bye to
the folk of Candlestick Cove, who had gathered to wish him Godspeed, and
laughed in delighted satisfaction with their affection, and waved his
hand, and called to his dogs and cracked his whip; and he would have
been gone south from Candlestick Cove on the way to Poor Luck and Our
Harbour in another instant had he not caught sight of Bob Likely coming
up the harbour ice from the direction of the Arctic floe that was then
beginning to drive through Ships' Run under the impulse of a stiffening
breeze from the north.
It was old Bob Likely with the mail-bag on his back--there was no doubt
about that; the old man's stride and crooked carriage were everywhere
familiar--and as he was doubtless from Amen Island, and as he carried
the gossip of the coast on the tip of his tongue, of which news of
illness and death was not the lest interesting variety, Doctor Luke,
alert for intelligence that might serve the ends of his work--Doctor
Luke halted his team and waited for old Bob Likely to draw near.
"From Amen, Bob?"
"I is, sir. I'm jus' come across the floe."
"Are they all well?"
"Well, no, sir; they isn't. The Little Fiddler is in mortal trouble. I
fears, sir, he's bound Aloft."
"Hut!" the Doctor scoffed. "What's the matter with the Little Fiddler?"
"He've a sore finger, sir."
The Doctor pondered this. He frowned--perplexed. "What sort of a sore
finger?" he inquired, troubled.
"They thinks 'tis mortification, sir."
"Gangrene! What do you think, Bob?"
"It looks like it, sir. I seed a case, sir, when I were off sealin' on
the----"
"Was the finger bruised?"
"No, sir; 'twasn't bruised."
"Was it frost-bitten?"
"No, sir; 'twasn't the frost that done it. I made sure o' that. It come
from a small cut, sir."
"A simple infection, probably. Did you see a line of demarcation?"
"Sir?"
"It was discoloured?"
"Oh, ay, sir! 'Twas some queer sort o' colour."
"What colour?"
"Well, sir," said Bob, cautiously, "I wouldn't say as t' that. I'd jus'
say 'twas some mortal queer sort o' colour an' be content with my
labour."
"Was there a definite line between the discolouration and what seemed to
be sound flesh?"
Bob Likely scratched his head in doubt.
"I don't quite mind," said he, "whether there was or not."
"Then there was not," the Doctor declared, relieved. "You would not have
failed to note that line. 'Tis not gangrene. The lad's all right. That's
good. Everybody else well on Amen Island?"
Bob was troubled.
"They're t' cut that finger off," said he, "jus' as soon as little Terry
will yield. Las' night, sir, we wasn't able t' overcome his objection.
'Tis what he calls one of his fiddle fingers, sir, an' he's holdin'
out----"
"Cut it off? Absurd! They'll not do that."
"Ay; but they will, sir. 'Tis t' be done the night, sir, with the help
o' Sandy Lands an' Black Walt Anderson. They're t' cotch un an' hold un,
sir. They'll wait no longer. They're afeared o' losin' little Terry
altogether."
"Yes; but surely----"
"If 'twere mortification, sir, wouldn't you cut that finger off?"
"At once."
"With an axe?"
"If I had nothing better."
"An' if the lad was obstinate----"
"If an immediate operation seemed to be advisable, Bob, I would have the
lad held."
"Well, sir," said Bob, "they thinks 'tis mortification, sir, an' not
knowin' no better----"
"Thank you," said the Doctor. He turned to Mild Jim Cull. "Skipper
James," said he, "have Timmie take care of the dogs. I'll cross Ships'
Run and lance that finger."
* * * * *
Dusk fell on Amen Island. No doctor had happened across the Run. No
saving help--no help of any sort, except the help of Sandy Lands and
Black Walt Anderson, to hold the rebellious subject--had come.
At Candlestick Cove Doctor Luke had been delayed. The great news of his
fortunate passing had spread inland overnight to the tilts of Rattle
River. Before the Doctor could get under way for Amen Island, an old
dame of Serpent Bend, who had come helter-skelter through the timber,
whipping her team, frantic to be in time to command relief before the
Doctor's departure, drove up alone, with four frowsy dogs, and desired
the extraction of a tooth; but so fearful and coy was
she--notwithstanding that she had suffered the tortures of the damned,
as she put it, for three months, having missed the Doctor on his
northern course--that the Doctor was kept waiting on her humour an hour
or more before she would yield to his scoldings and blandishments.
And no sooner had the old dame of Serpent Bend been rejoiced to receive
her recalcitrant tooth in a detached relationship than a lad of
Trapper's Lake trudged in to expose a difficulty that turned out to be
neither more nor less than a pitiable effect of the lack of nourishment;
and when an arrangement had been accomplished to feed the lad well and
strong again, a woman of Silver Fox was driven in--a matter that
occupied Doctor Luke until the day was near spent and the crossing of
Ships' Run was a hazard to be rather gravely debated.
"You'll put it off, sir?" Skipper James advised.
The Doctor surveyed the ice of Ships' Run and the sky beyond Amen
Island.
"I wish I might," said he, frankly.
"I would, sir."
"I--I can't very well."
"The floe's started down the Run, sir."
"Yes-s," the Doctor admitted, uneasily; "but you see, Skipper James,
I--I----"