whole wide body of ice, from Rattle Brook, at the bottom of the bay, to the great heads of Thimble and the Scotchman's Breakfast, was striving to break away to the open under the urge of the wind.
Teddy Brisk's adventure to Our Harbour must wait for frost and still weather; and wait it did – until in a shift of the weather there came a day when all that was water was frozen stiff overnight, and the wind fell away to a doubtful calm, and the cliffs of Ginger Head were a loom in the frosty distance across the bay.
"Pack that lad, mum," said Skipper Thomas then. "'Tis now or never."
"I don't like the look of it," the mother complained.
"I warns you, mum – you're too fond o' that lad."
"I'm anxious. The bay's rotten. You knows that, sir – a man as old as you. Another southerly wind would shatter – "
"Ecod! You'll coddle that wee lad t' death."
Teddy Brisk's mother laughed.
"Not me!" said she.
A cunning idea occurred to Skipper Thomas.
"Or cowardice!" he grumbled.
Teddy Brisk's mother started. She stared in doubt at old Skipper Thomas. Her face clouded. She was grim.
"I'd do nothin' so wicked as that, sir," said she. "I'll pack un up."
It chanced that Timothy Light was sunk in a melancholy regard of his physical health when Skipper Thomas went to arrange for the dogs. He was discovered hugging a red-hot bogie in his bachelor cottage of turf and rough-hewn timber by the turn to Sunday-School Hill. And a woebegone old fellow he was: a sight to stir pity and laughter – with his bottles and plasters, his patent-medicine pamphlets, his drawn, gloomy countenance, and his determination to "draw off" the indisposition by way of his lower extremities with a plaster of renowned power.
"Nothin' stronger, Skipper Thomas, knowed t' the science o' medicine an' the" – Skipper Timothy did not hesitate over the obstacle – "the prac-t'-tie-on-ers thereof," he groaned; "an' she've begun t' pull too. Ecod! but she's drawin'! Mm-m-m! There's power for you! An' if she don't pull the pain out o' the toes o' my two feet" – Skipper Timothy's feet were swathed in plaster; his pain was elsewhere; the course of its exit was long – "I'm free t' say that nothin' will budge my complaint. Mm-m! Ecod! b'y, but she've sure begun t' draw!"
Skipper Timothy bade Skipper Thomas sit himself down, an' brew himself a cup o' tea, an' make himself t' home, an' feel free o' the place, the while he should entertain and profit himself with observing the operation of the plaster of infallible efficacy in the extraction of pain.
"What's gone wrong along o' you?" Skipper Thomas inquired.
"I been singin' pretty hearty o' late," Skipper Timothy moaned – he was of a musical turn and given frequently to a vigorous recital of the Psalms and Paraphrases – "an' I 'low I've strained my stummick."
Possibly Skipper Timothy could not distinguish, with any degree of scientific accuracy, between the region of his stomach and the region of his lungs – a lay confusion, perhaps, in the matter of terms and definite boundaries; he had been known to mistake his liver for his heart in the indulgence of a habit of pessimistic diagnosis. And whether he was right in this instance or not, and whatever the strain involved in his vocal effort, which must have tried all the muscles concerned, he was now coughing himself purple in the face – a symptom that held its mortal implication of the approach of what is called the lung trouble and the decline.
The old man was not fit for the trail – no cruise to Our Harbour for him next day; he was on the stocks and out of commission. Ah, well, then, would he trust his dogs? Oh, aye; he would trust his team free an' willin'. An' might Billy Topsail drive the team? Oh, aye; young Billy Topsail might drive the team an' he had the spirit for the adventure. Let Billy Topsail keep un down —keep the brutes down, ecod! – and no trouble would come of it.
"A tap on the snout t' mend their manners," Skipper Timothy advised. "A child can overcome an' manage a team like that team o' ten."
And so it was arranged that Billy Topsail should drive Teddy Brisk to Our Harbour next day.
CHAPTER IV
In Which the Komatik is Foundered, the Dogs Draw Their Own Conclusions from the Misfortune and Prepare to Take Advantage, Cracker Attempts a Theft and Gets a Clip on the Snout, and Billy Topsail and Teddy Brisk Confront a Situation of Peril with Composure, Not Knowing the Ultimate Disaster that Impends
Billy Topsail was now sixteen years old – near seventeen, to be exact; and he was a lusty, well-grown lad, who might easily have been mistaken for a man, not only because of his inches, but because of an assured, competent glance of the eye. Born at Ruddy Cove of Newfoundland, and the son of a fisherman, he was a capable chap in his native environment. And what natural aptitude he possessed for looking after himself in emergencies had been developed and made more courageous and acute by the adventurous life he had lived – as anybody may know, indeed, who cares to peruse the records of those incidents as elsewhere set down. As assistant to the clerk of the trader Black Bat, he had served well; and it is probable that he would some day have been a clerk himself, and eventually a trader, had not the adventure upon which he was embarking with Teddy Brisk interrupted his career by opening a new vista for his ambition.
Billy Topsail and Teddy Brisk set out in blithe spirits for Doctor Luke's hospital at Our Harbour. A dawn of obscure and disquieting significance; a hint of milder weather in the growing day; a drear, gray sky thickening to drab and black, past noon; a puff of southerly wind and a slosh of rain; a brisk gale, lightly touched with frost, running westerly, with snow, in a close, encompassing cloud of great wet flakes; lost landmarks; dusk falling, and a black night imminent, with high wind – and Billy Topsail's team of ten went scrambling over an unexpected ridge and foundered the komatik.
It was a halt – no grave damage done; it was nothing to worry a man – not then.
Young Billy Topsail laughed; and little Teddy Brisk chuckled from the tumbled depths of his dogskin robes; and the dogs, on their haunches now, a panting, restless half-circle – the Labrador dogs run in individual traces – viewed the spill with shamefaced amusement. Yet Billy Topsail was confused and lost. Snow and dusk were impenetrable; the barricades and cliffs of Ginger Head, to which he was bound, lay somewhere in the snow beyond – a mere general direction. It is nothing, however, to be lost. Daylight and clearing weather infallibly disclose the lay of the land.
A general direction is good enough; a man proceeds confidently on the meager advantage.
It was interesting for the dogs – this rowdy pack from Tight Cove. They were presently curious. It was a break in the routine of the road. The thing concerned them nearly. What the mischief was the matter? Something was up! Here was no mere pause for rest. The man was making no arrangements to move along. And what now? Amusement gave place to an alert observation of the course of the unusual incident.
The dogs came a little closer. It was not an attitude of menace. They followed Billy Topsail's least movement with jerks of concern and starts of surprise; and they reflected – inquiring amazed. Day's work done? Camp for the night? Food? What next, anyhow? It was snowing. Thick weather, this! Thick's bags – this palpable dusk! No man could see his way in a gale like this. A man had his limitations and customs. This man would camp. There would be food in reward of the day's work. Was there never to be any food? There must be food! Now – at last! Oh, sure – why, sure – sure – sure there'd be something to eat when the man went into camp!
Mm-m? No? Was
