“Aye,” laughed Davy, “we’ll let un come fast as ever you and Pop can lift un.”

And so they were doing well enough, and making quick work of it, until the last barrel came, and the boat was so crowded with cargo that the standing room for Thomas and Doctor Joe was narrow and cramped.

“Have you a good footing there?” asked Doctor Joe, when the barrel was balanced on the end of the jetty and they were ready for the lift.

“’Tis all right,” said Thomas, “let her come.”

And then Thomas slipped, and though Doctor Joe did his best to prevent it, the barrel crashed down upon Thomas’s leg, and when Doctor Joe and David lifted it and released him, Thomas discovered that he could not stand upon the leg.

“She’ll soon be all right,” said Thomas. “She’s just numbed a bit with the weight.”

“Let me feel of it,” suggested Doctor Joe, proceeding to examine the leg.

“Aye, feel of un, and rub th’ numbness out,” said Thomas.

“Too bad! Too bad!” exclaimed Doctor Joe, presently. “The leg is broken.”

And so indeed it proved.

Doctor Joe and the boys carried Thomas to the house and laid him in his bunk. Then Doctor Joe cut some sticks of proper length and size and wrapped them with pieces of old blanket, and with David’s help set the leg and deftly bound the splints into place with bandages which Margaret had quickly prepared under his direction as he worked.

“There you are,” he said, finally, standing up and surveying his work. “Does it feel comfortable, Tom?”

“Not so bad,” answered Thomas. “Will th’ lashin’s hold, now?”

“I’ll warrant that!” assured Doctor Joe.

“And is she like t’ be straight and stout again when she heals?” asked Thomas anxiously.

“Straight and stout as ever she was,” promised Doctor Joe, “but you’ll have to lie still for a month or six weeks, and then you’ll be on crutches for a time. I’ll look after you, Tom.”

“And I can’t go to my trappin’ grounds, then, before th’ New Year, whatever?” Thomas asked anxiously.

“No—not before the New Year—whatever—nor after the New Year—not this winter—I’m afraid,” said Dr. Joe, reluctantly.

A shadow passed over Thomas’s face, but he said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” sympathized Doctor Joe.

“’Twere a blessin’ you were here t’ mend un,” said Tom.

“Yes,” agreed Doctor Joe, “it was well I was here to set it.”

“I wouldn’t mind so much if ’tweren’t for Jamie,” continued Thomas. “How, now, can we ever get th’ money t’ pay th’ lad’s way t’ have th’ great doctor cure him?”

But this was a question Doctor Joe could not answer, and he was sorely troubled.

“Pop,” said Jamie, who had come close to his father’s bed, “we’ll keep our grit, both of us, now.”

“Aye, lad, we’ll keep our grit, you and me,” and there was a choke in Thomas’s voice as he reached for Jamie’s hand, which Jamie gave him after passing it before his eyes in a vain effort to brush the mist away, which was a habit with him of late.

III
DOCTOR JOE

Doctor Joe’s usually jovial face had suddenly become drawn and tired. He had not answered Thomas’s question, “How, now, can we ever get th’ money t’ pay th’ lad’s way t’ have th’ great doctor cure him?” How, indeed, could they get the necessary money? What could they do to save Jamie’s eyes without money? And he was thinking of the years before he came to The Labrador—of what he had once been—of the years that he had spent on The Labrador as a hunter and fisherman. Had his life been wasted? he asked himself.

“We’re in a tight pinch, but hard luck is bound to come now and again,” said Thomas, at length, startling Doctor Joe out of his reveries, “and we’ll try not to worry about un. If ’tweren’t for Jamie’s eyes needin’ t’ be cured ’twouldn’t be so bad.”

“No, if ’tweren’t for Jamie’s eyes it wouldn’t be so bad. If ’tweren’t for Jamie’s eyes,” said Doctor Joe.

And then he turned and went out of doors and down to the beach, and for a little while paced up and down, with his head bent in thought.

There is no regret in life so bitter as regret for indiscretions that have ruined a career and ended life’s hopes and ambitions. The world is a desolate place indeed for a man to live in when he has no ambition and no goal of attainment. He is simply existing—a clog in the moving throng of doers. The man who does not go forward must of necessity go backward. There is no room in the hustle and bustle and jostle along the trail of life for one to stand still.

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 noble 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 circumstances which had ended his career, showered upon himself bitter denunciation and condemnation. He had indulged in appetites 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 accumulated 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 God!” 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 grass. 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 noble man when he grew up.

And then he passed 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 passing 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 shore.

“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:

“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 Saturdays with you if you like.”

“Will you, now? Will you do that?” asked Thomas eagerly.

“Yes,” assured 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 fortitude 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 molasses 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, whatever,” persisted David, eagerly.

“I’m not sayin’ you couldn’t tend th’ traps, lad,” assured 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.”

David was plainly disappointed, for he felt the reliance and self-confidence of youth, and the romance and adventure of a winter’s isolation on the far-off trail appealed to him. And in his heart perhaps he resented what he deemed his father’s lack of confidence in him as a woodsman. It is the way of boys the world over to place their judgment sometimes above that of their elders.

The two lads ate their snack and drank their tea hurriedly, for the day was none too long, and then, with Doctor Joe to accompany them to the jetty and see them off with a cheery farewell, they loosed the boat from her moorings and David, with a long sculling oar, worked her down through The Jug and beyond the Point, where her sails caught the wind. Then David put away the sculling oar, shipped the rudder, and took the tiller, and turning to Andy he said:

“Since Pop broke his leg I been thinking’ wonderful hard, Andy.”

“What you been thinkin’, Davy?” asked Andy.

“I been thinkin’ I’ve got t’ hunt now, whatever,” announced David. “I’m goin’ t’ ask Pop again t’ let me hunt his trail this winter. He were sayin’ I can’t, but somebody must hunt un, and I’m th’ only one t’ do it. We got t’ have fur t’ pay for th’ cure o’ Jamie’s eyes, and Pop can’t hunt, and they’s no way t’ get un if I don’t hunt. If we don’t get un, Jimmie’ll go blind, and we must get un, whatever. You’ll have t’ do my work about home and hunt th’ meat and feed th’ dogs, and get th’ wood.”

“Pop won’t let you go t’ Seal Lake alone!” exclaimed Andy, startled by David’s apparent revolt against his father’s decision. “He said you couldn’t!”

“Yes he will. You’ll see,” declared David. “I has a plan, an’ Pop’ll let me go, I’m thinkin’, when he hears un. And ’tis th’ only chance t’ save Jamie from goin’ blind. I can’t make th’ hunt Pop would, but I’ll do my best, and anyway I’m ’most a man. I’ll soon be sixteen!”

David, standing in the stern of the boat, drew himself to his full height and squared his shoulders, and indeed he was a stalwart lad, and Andy was proud of his big brother.

“You is fine and strong!” said Andy in admiration.

“Aye, that I be,” admitted David with no little pride, “and you’re fine and strong, too, for your age. You can handle th’ dogs and ’tend th’ traps about home, and look after things whilst I’m away, and we’ll show Pop and Doctor Joe what we can do.”

“And Pop lets you go!” said Andy. “But I’m wonderful afraid, now, he won’t let you go.”

“But I has a plan. You’ll see,” said David with assurance.

“What’s your plan, now?” asked Andy.

“’Tis a plan come t’ me while Doctor Joe were settin’ Pop’s leg,” said David, “but I weren’t tellin’ he about un when he speaks of my goin’. I wanted t’ find out first. Indian Jake is back in th’ Bay, and he’s wantin’ a place t’ hunt on shares because he can’t buy his own traps. He’s been away two years, and th’ Company won’t let he have traps on debt because he’s owin’ so much there already that he didn’t pay before he goes away. Trowbridge & Gray won’t let he have traps because he took his fur away two years ago when he were owin’ so much, and didn’t try t’ clear up any of his debt. Pop’s got plenty o’ traps, and my plan is t’ have Indian Jake hunt along o’ me on shares.”

“It seems like cheatin’ for Indian Jake t’ take his fur away when he were owin’ a debt t’ th’ Company,” suggested Andy.

“’Tweren’t honest,” agreed David, “but he’s sayin’ now if he has a chance he’ll pay his debt. It seems hard for he not t’ have a chance, and by huntin’ on shares along o’ me ’twill give he a chance, and ’twill help us. Pop will have a third o’ Indian Jake’s hunt, and he’s ’most as good a hunter as Pop. Then I’ll have some one t’ hunt with, and I’ll be safe, and Pop won’t mind my goin’. All o’ my hunt and a third o’ Indian Jake’s, I’m thinkin’, would be ’most as much as Pop’s would ha’ been if he hadn’t broke his leg. Then Pop and Doctor Joe will sure have th’ money t’ pay for fixin’ Jamie’s eyes.”

“Oh, I hopes he’ll let you go!” exclaimed Andy. “Th’ plan is fine!”

David’s plan was an ambitious one. Thomas had stated that he would be quite too young for another two years to endure the hardship and danger and isolation of the winter fur trails. But if he could arrange for Indian Jake to accompany him, his father might consent. Jamie’s eyes were at stake, and that was the vital thing. David felt that no sacrifice or risk was too great if they could save Jamie from blindness, and he hoped that his father would, after consideration, take the same view.

It is rare that even an old, experienced trapper, enters the far Labrador wilderness without a companion, though Thomas, who knew no danger where he himself was concerned, had usually hunted alone. It is the custom of trappers to work in pairs, with a central meeting point where at stated intervals, sometimes once a fortnight and sometimes at the end of each week, they may enjoy each other’s society for a day or two, and, if necessary, lend each other assistance.

David was aware, however, that at this late season the trappers had already gone to their trails, or had already completed their arrangements for the winter. Therefore he had decided upon making a bargain, if possible with Indian Jake, the only hunter in the Bay, so far as he knew, who had no trail to hunt. It was only under these circumstances that he suggested the half breed as his hunting companion, for he was a man whom no one trusted. This general lack of confidence in Indian Jake might lead his father to refuse to grant his request, but he was determined to do his utmost to induce him to grant it.

Hugely interested, and more or less excited with their project, the boys talked and schemed, until at length the line of whitewashed buildings of the Hudson’s Bay Company’s post came into view.

“There’s the Post!” exclaimed David. “I hope Indian Jake is stoppin’ there yet.”

“’Twill be fine, now, if he is, and if he’ll go, and Pop lets he have th’ trail t’ hunt along with you. The Indian tents are all gone,” said Andy, indicating a long stretch of beach to the eastward of the post which had been occupied by Indian camps during the summer.

“Yes,” said David, “they mostly goes th’ middle of August t’ hunt deer before th’ fur hunt begins. We won’t see them again till the break-up next spring, whatever.”

They were silent for a little, and then David, pointing to the rolling wilderness to the westward remarked:

“It looks fine t’ me out there! And think o’ th’ martens and foxes and lynx! It’s full o’ fur, Andy, waitin’ t’ be trapped, and if Pop lets me go, I can trap some of un, whatever!”

“There’s Indian Jake! See him? The lanky one!” exclaimed Andy, as the boat drew near the wharf and four men came out of one of the buildings and down the wharf to meet them.

“Sure ’tis he! And there’s Uncle Ben Rudder and Hiram Muggs, along with Zeke Hodge! They must be gettin’ their winter outfit. I’m wonderful glad Indian Jake’s here!” exclaimed David.

Zeke Hodge, the Company’s servant, with the assistance of the three, quickly unloaded the boat.

“Where’s your pop? Makin’ ready for th’ winter huntin’?” asked Zeke, as the boys came ashore after discharging the cargo and making the boat fast.

“He broke his leg this mornin’ whilst we were loadin’ th’ boat,” said David. “Doctor Joe was there and fixed un, but Pop won’t be out o’ bed for five or six weeks, whatever, and won’t be strong to go t’ th’ huntin’ th’ whole winter.”

“Good gracious! Good gracious! Dear eyes!” exclaimed Uncle Ben Rudder, a grizzled, stockily-built old trapper of sixty years or thereabouts. “Broke his leg! Tom Angus went, now, and broke his leg, did you say?”

“Aye, Uncle Ben, broke un clear off, but she’s fixed good and proper, and Doctor Joe says she’ll heal fine,” David explained.

Zeke, and Hiram Muggs and Indian Jake all declared it was “too bad, and a sore misfortune, just at th’ beginnin’ o’ th’ huntin’ season,” and Uncle Ben exclaimed:

“Tom Angus broke his leg! Dear eyes! But Doctor Joe’ll fix un! Good gracious, yes! He’ll fix un! He’s a wonderful man, now, is Doctor Joe!”

“Too bad he can’t hunt,” remarked Indian Jake. “His trail up on Seal Lake is one o’ th’ best in th’ country. Too bad t’ let it stand idle.”

“Hum-m-m!” grunted Uncle Ben.

“’Tis a fine trail,” agreed David, “and Pop makes fine hunts on it.”

“He might let some one hunt it on shares?” suggested Indian Jake.

“Tom Angus won’t need much help in decidin’ whether he wants his trail hunted on shares or no,” Uncle Ben broke in with some asperity. “Tom Angus is a great man t’ decide for himself what he’s wantin’, and what he’s not wantin’. Good gracious! Tom Angus can decide for himself!”

With this outburst Uncle Ben followed Zeke and Hiram into Zeke’s cabin, in response to Zeke’s suggestion that “supper was ’most ready and they might as well go in,” but Indian Jake tarried behind with David and Andy.

Indian Jake, the half-breed, was not a native of the Bay. He had appeared here first some five years before, coming from “somewhere south,” and after trapping in the vicinity for three seasons, disappeared. During this time, as David had explained to Andy, he had contracted a debt, and when he left he took with him furs which should rightfully have been used in discharging it. Now after two years he had returned, to remain permanently, as he stated, in the Bay.

He was a tall, muscular fellow, with the dark red skin, straight black hair and swinging stride of the Indian. A pair of keen, restless black eyes and a beaked nose, suggested the hawk. His features, however, were not those of an Indian, and plainly indicated a mixed ancestry.

“I’d like t’ hunt your father’s trail on shares,” suggested Indian Jake, when he was alone with David and Andy.

“Pop’s got two trails up at Seal Lake,” said David. “I knows his old trail, and I were thinkin’ t’ hunt she myself if Pop lets me, and I’m not doubtin’ he would if some one were along with me huntin’ th’ new trail. He’s got all th’ traps for th’ new trail. I were goin’ t’ ask you t’ speak to he about un, Jake.”

“I’d like t’ hunt with ye, Davy. I think we’d get along fine,” said Indian Jake, smiling down ingratiatingly at David, and Indian Jake had a bland and pleasant smile when he chose, in spite of his beaked nose and hawk’s eyes.

And so it came about that Indian Jake went to The Jug the next day with David and Andy. And because there was such urgent need of money, and also because David pleaded so hard, and Indian Jake was so good a trapper—for no one doubted his ability—it was decided that not only David, but Andy also, should go with Indian Jake to Seal Lake for the winter, as we shall presently see.

The boys were pleased beyond measure, for now each felt he was in truth to take a man’s place and do his part in earnest, and they were quite sure that the problem of getting the money to pay the expense of curing Jamie’s eyes was solved. And perhaps, too, they were pleased with the promise of adventure, for every red-blooded boy loves adventure; and to be buried in the depths of the great wilderness for many months, with no other companion than Indian Jake, was adventure in itself. And, indeed, there was to be plenty of it for both of them, and of hardships, too.

“Then you’ll be goin’ home with Andy and me tomorrow to ask Pop?” inquired David expectantly.

“Yes,” said Indian Jake, with undoubted satisfaction. “I’ll go back with you.”

David could scarce suppress his excitement, but neither he nor Andy nor Indian Jake himself thought best to refer to the arrangement when, a moment later, they followed the others into Zeke Hodge’s cabin. Tea was ready, and they drew up to the table with Zeke and Hiram and Uncle Ben.

In the center of the clean-scoured, uncovered table was a big, steaming dish of stewed porcupine and doughboys, and at either end a plate piled high with huge slices of bread, and when Zeke had asked the blessing, Mrs. Hodge and Kate, her fifteen-year-old daughter, poured tea and otherwise served the men while they ate.

“Porcupine! Dear eyes! Porcupine!” exclaimed Uncle Ben, helping himself generously. “Where’d ye get un, Zeke? They’re wonderful scarce these days. Wonderful scarce! I ain’t seen one since last spring.”

“Right back here in th’ green-woods,” said Zeke. “I heard th’ dogs yelpin’ this mornin’; and I goes t’ see what ’tis all about. There sat th’ porcupine hunched up, and th’ old dogs in a circle around he, doin’ th’ yelpin’, and two of th’ young dogs pawin’ at their noses and whinin’, with their mouths full o’ quills.”

“Huh-huh,” chuckled Uncle Ben. “Th’ old uns knew enough t’ keep away from danger. They’d been there theirselves, or seen them that had, and th’ young dogs had t’ get hurt t’ learn enough t’ leave dangerous things alone.”

“It took me an hour t’ pull th’ quills out o’ their noses and mouths with a pair of pincers,” said Zeke. “They’ll know enough t’ give porcupines room after this.”

“Some folks is like porcupines,” observed Uncle Ben, glancing at Indian Jake, who seemed quite unconscious of the thrust. “It’s best not t’ have any dealin’s with un.”

David and Andy were too full of their plans, and too hungry, and well occupied with the toothsome dish, to heed Uncle Ben’s suggestion. And though many times that evening, while the men sat smoking their pipes and talking about this and that, Uncle Ben made blunt and cutting remarks that were aimed at Indian Jake’s character and honesty, the half-breed kept his temper and silence, with a remarkable display of self-control. Once or twice, to be sure, a sneering smile stole upon his face. It might have been that he held the esteem of the others in fine contempt, or possibly he awaited a better opportunity for accounting and revenge.

But so far as David and Andy were concerned, they were thinking only of Indian Jake’s ability as a trapper, and were quite transported by the belief that they had already solved the problems of the future. With Indian Jake’s help they were well satisfied the money would be earned to pay for Jamie’s cure. It only remained to gain their father’s consent to David’s plan. They were optimists. They believed that what they wished to be, would be, if they did their best to make their wishes realized. Only experience can teach that the best laid plans sometimes fail.

V
UNCLE BEN GIVES WARNING

In the beginning Thomas had a decided feeling of uncertainty concerning Indian Jake, because of Indian Jake’s record of two years before. The debt that he had left unpaid was for provisions and clothing which had been advanced him by the Hudson’s Bay Company that he might subsist during the hunting season, and with the understanding that he would pay the indebtedness by trading in at the Company’s store the furs he trapped.

It was a debt of honor, thought Thomas and the other Bay folk, and the furs, to their way of thinking, belonged rightfully to the Company; and therefore, in taking them away with him, Indian Jake had actually been guilty of dishonesty. Indian Jake agreed with Thomas, who stated his opinion plainly to the half-breed.

“I know the furs were the Company’s,” said Indian Jake, “but I had reasons for goin’. Now I’ve come back t’ straighten up what I owe. All I want is a chance, and I can’t pay what I owe if nobody gives me the chance, and down t’ th’ tradin’ posts they won’t trust me, and nobody else wants to, unless you do.”

“Well,” said Thomas, after a little consideration, “I’ll do it. ’Tis a fine place for fur where I traps, and you’ll make a fine hunt.

“But you’ll be huntin’ one trail, and if I let Davy go he’ll be huntin’ another, and Davy’ll only see you once a week, whatever. ’Twill be a wonderful lonely time for Davy between times alone, and he might have a mishap, for ’tisn’t natural for a young lad t’ be over careful. I’m not thinkin’ I’ll let he go, Jake. You’ll have t’ hunt alone. Davy’s too young yet for th’ work.”

“It’s all the same t’ me,” said Indian Jake, “huntin’ alone or with company.”

“Oh, but, Pop,” pleaded David in deep disappointment. “I’ll be wonderful careful. I’ll ’bide in th’ tilts when th’ weather’s too nasty t’ be out. I wants t’ go. I’ll get some fur, whatever, and we needs un all to pay for th’ cure t’ Jamie’s eyes.”

Jamie’s eyes! Thomas looked at Jamie, who was standing at the window, vainly trying to peer through the ever-present mist, and as he saw Jamie raise his hand to brush the mist away a great lump came into his throat.

“Davy,” said he, after a little silence, “you’re a brave lad, and careful, but ’tis a wonderful lonely place up there, trampin’ th’ trails. The storms come sudden and awful sometimes, and it takes a man’s strength to face un. ’Tis frostier there, too, than here. There’s none o’ th’ comfort o’ th’ home you’ve always been used to. I’d never rest easy if I let you go and you never came back.”

“But,” insisted David, “I’ll be careful and come back—and Jamie mustn’t be let t’ go blind. ’Twould be worse for he than bein’ dead. Let me go, Pop!”

“I’ll think about un—I’ll think about un,” said Thomas, and he closed his eyes to think.

At the end of ten minutes, when Thomas opened his eyes again, he had decided, and turning to Indian Jake, he said:

“I’m thinkin’, now, I’ll let Davy go, and I’ll let Andy go along t’ keep Davy company and help he. The two will be company for each other, and doin’ th’ work together they’ll get over th’ trail faster than ever Davy could alone, and if they’s a mishap, one can help the other. But you’ll have t’ keep an eye to un, Jake!”

“It’s all the same to me, whether one or both of ’em go,” said Indian Jake. “I’ll keep an eye on ’em, so they won’t get in trouble.”

“Thank you, Pop! I’ll be wonderful careful,” said David, with vast relief and satisfaction.

“Are you meanin’ I’m t’ go t’ th’ trails, too?” asked Andy, who had been standing with David and Indian Jake by the bedside.

“Aye, Andy, lad,” said Thomas, “you’ll go along and help Davy.”

“Oh—Pop!” exclaimed Andy, which was all his emotions and excitement would permit him to say.

“Is you glad, now?” asked Thomas with a smile, for he knew very well how glad Andy was. It is the greatest wish of every lad on The Labrador to go to the trails and hunt, as his father does, and eagerly he waits for the time when he may go. It is a brave life, that, living in the midst of the great wilderness, surrounded by its ever-present mysteries, and what boy is there who does not wish to do brave deeds? ’Tis a man’s work, following the trails, and the trapper plays a man’s game, and what boy does not wish to play a man’s game?

“Oh, I’m wonderful glad!” exclaimed Andy.

“’Twill be fine t’ have Andy along!” broke in David, “and we’ll hunt fine together.”

“We’ll hunt un the best ever we can,” asserted Andy.

And thus it had been decided, and the plan seemed a good one to Doctor Joe, for it was the only solution of the problem of how to get the money that would be so necessary the following summer.

Nevertheless, neither Doctor Joe nor Thomas could quite rid himself of a feeling of anxiety and uncertainty as to the wisdom of permitting the boys to enter the wilderness with Indian Jake. They could not forget his record, in spite of his fair promises, and try as they would they could not feel complete confidence in him.

The days that followed were busy ones at The Jug. It was the middle of the first week in September, and Indian Jake was eager to be away to the trapping grounds the following Monday, for it would be a three weeks’ journey, and with the coming of October the lakes might be expected to freeze at any time. They would travel by boat and therefore it was essential that they arrive at their destination on Seal Lake before the freeze-up came.

And so there was great hustle and bustle, assembling the outfit and getting all in readiness. And Margaret, too, was no less busy than the others, working early and late preparing the warm clothing that the boys would need.

Each was to be supplied with two adikys, one of heavy kersey cloth and one of moleskin. The latter, with its close-woven, smooth surface, would be an excellent protection from the wind, and snow would not readily cling to it, and it was made large enough to wear over the former. Both garments were fitted with hoods, and the hood on the kersey adiky was trimmed with fur around the face to add to its warmth and comfort. These garments were to be drawn on over the head like a sweater, but were loose and roomy. There were no buttons, and no openings where snow could sift in, and a drawstring around the face permitted them to be adjusted snugly to the cheeks, though there was no attempt to have them cover nose or mouth, for were that done the moisture from the breath would freeze upon the face and cause painful frostbite.

Then in each outfit there were a half dozen pairs of slippers, or socks, made of heavy woolen blanket duffle, to wear inside the buckskin moccasins, and two pairs of mittens of the same material to wear inside buckskin mittens, and each had a pair of moleskin cloth leggins.

Some of these things the boys already possessed, as they did round, peakless muskrat skin caps that could be drawn down over the ears and worn inside the adiky hood, but Margaret went carefully over all, to be quite sure everything was in the best of order.

Other clothing and equipment consisted of moleskin trousers, several pairs of buckskin moccasins for winter wear, and kneehigh sealskin boots for the milder weather of autumn and spring; buckskin mittens, underwear, heavy outer shirts, ordinary knit socks, a sleeping bag for each lined with Hudson’s Bay Company blankets, cooking utensils, axes, files for sharpening axes, and a mending kit containing needles and thread for making repairs. And each was supplied with a 44-40 carbine, and a quantity of ammunition. These were their especial pride. David had been presented with his rifle the previous winter by Thomas, and Andy was to have an old one which his father had used before he purchased one of a later model.

Indian Jake assembled the general camp equipment and the provisions, the latter consisting chiefly of flour, pork, tea, a small keg of molasses, and salt, packing everything into snug, convenient packages, that could be handled easily.

Jamie was vastly interested in the preparations. He did little things to help the boys, and Indian Jake permitted him to hold open the mouths of the bags as he packed them, to Jamie’s delight, and made the lad feel that he was really of much assistance, and the two became the best of friends.

Doctor Joe had gone home to Break Cove on the evening that the boys had returned from the post with Indian Jake, and was not expected back until Sunday. They were surprised, therefore, to see his boat coming up the bight on Saturday morning, and astonished when Doctor Joe announced upon his arrival that he had decided not to go to his old trapping grounds that winter.

“I’ve been thinking matters over,” he explained, “and if you’ll let me, I’ll make The Jug my home this winter. I’ll hunt up here, Thomas, where you used to hunt before you took the Seal Lake trail, when the children were small, and you had to be home o’ nights. My old trail is pretty well hunted out, anyhow, and I’ll do better here where there hasn’t been any trapping since you quit.”

“’Tis wonderful good of you,” said Thomas.

“I know well enough,” continued Doctor Joe, “that unless you’re watched pretty closely, and I see you every day you’ll be trying to use that leg some day before you should, and perhaps break it again. With this arrangement I’ll be here every night and keep track of you, and look after Jamie’s eyes, if they need it. Once a week isn’t often enough. I can feed the dogs, too, and do the other rough work that’s too hard for Margaret, and that she shouldn’t try to do.”

“I were thinkin’ o’ Margaret feedin’ th’ dogs,” said Thomas, “and I don’t like to have her do it. They knows a lass can’t master un, and they’d be like t’ turn on her some time.”

And thus it was arranged, to the vast satisfaction of Thomas and Margaret, as well as Doctor Joe, that The Jug was to be his home while the boys were away. And Jamie was mightily pleased, for Doctor Joe would be jolly company of evenings, singing in his fine voice, as no other in the Bay could sing, and telling him stories such as no one else could tell.

Everything was in readiness on Saturday night, in order that Sunday might be observed as a day of rest. Thomas would permit no work to be done about his home on Sunday that could as well be done another day. Like most of the Bay folk, his faith was simple and literal.

“’Tis wrong t’ work and ’tis wrong t’ shoot on a Sunday,” said he, “and anything that ’tis wrong t’ do brings bad luck in th’ end if you does un. ’Tis goin’ contrary t’ th’ Almighty.”

And so the day was spent in quietude and rest indoors, which pleased Jamie greatly, for he was no less excited than David and Andy, and he was glad to have them near. They had suddenly become heroes in his sight, and indeed they were heroes, aye, and soldiers, too, going into the deep wilderness to battle with death-dealing blizzards and bitter, changeless cold for the sake of those they loved.

“And you and Andy makes a good hunt, and gets th’ fur t’ pay for havin’ th’ mist took out o’ my eyes,” said Jamie, passing his hand before his eyes in a pitiful little attempt to brush the mist away that he might see David’s features more plainly, “and th’ great doctor cures un, I’ll go to Seal Lake some time and hunt, too.”

“We’ll do our best, now,” assured David, “an’ we’ll get th’ fur, never fear.”

“That we will,” said Andy, squaring his shoulders.

“Pop says you’ll have t’ keep plenty o’ grit,” warned Jamie.

“We’ll keep plenty o’ grit,” said Andy.

“And a stout heart, like a man’s,” added Jamie.

“And we’ll keep our hearts stout like a man’s,” said Andy proudly.

It was to be a long time before the family should be together again, and Margaret had the dinner table set close to Thomas’s bunk. Doctor Joe had shot a great fat goose the day before—the first of the season—and Margaret cooked it for their Sunday dinner. Then there was bread and tea, and a fine big tart of bake-apple berries. And a cozy feast they had, with the fire in the big stove crackling merrily, for it was raw and cold outside. And though Thomas must needs lie flat upon his back he enjoyed the feast as well as any of them, for Margaret attended to that, in her gentle, thoughtful way.

When dinner was cleared away Doctor Joe told them stories, and at Margaret’s request sang for them, and when he sang some hymns they all joined with him—even Thomas, with a great bellowing voice. It was a day to be remembered, and David and Andy were to think of it often in the months to come, as they wearily tramped silent white trails, or sat of evenings in lonely tilts.

It was after candlelight, and they were at tea, that evening, when suddenly the door opened and in walked Uncle Ben Rudder and Hiram Muggs. Uncle Ben led Hiram directly to Thomas’s bed, and Thomas greeted them warmly.

“Good gracious! Good gracious!” exclaimed Uncle Ben. “To think, now, that Thomas Angus went and broke his leg! Dear eyes!”

“’Twas a sorry mishap,” sympathized Hiram, a wiry, active little man of few words.

“Aye,” agreed Thomas, “but it might ha’ been worse. I were thinkin’ how hard ’twould ha’ been when the children were little, or a season when th’ fishin’ were poor, and I were in debt with nothin’ ahead for th’ winter.”

“H-m-m-m,” grunted Uncle Ben. “I suppose nothin’s so bad it couldn’t be worse, but bad’s bad enough for all that. Good gracious, yes!”

“Well,” said Thomas, “we have t’ take things as they come, good or bad, and th’ best way, t’ my thinkin’, is t’ take un without complaint. But set in now, and have tea.”

When tea was cleared away, and Indian Jake and Hiram and Doctor Joe were smoking their pipes comfortably at the other end of the room, Uncle Ben seated himself by Thomas’s bed and asked:

“How about th’ huntin’, Tom? I says to myself, when Davy tells me you broke your leg, ‘Tom’ll need some one, now, t’ hunt his trail on shares. Good gracious, yes!’ and so I speaks t’ Hiram, and Hiram says he’ll hunt un, and here Hiram is, ready t’ go.”

“Why, I got un all fixed for Indian Jake t’ hunt un, along with Davy and Andy, and they starts in th’ marnin’,” explained Thomas.

“H-m-m-m!” grunted Uncle Ben. “Th’ Lard helps them that’s got common sense. Good gracious! What’s Indian Jake like t’ do? You know Indian Jake. He’s like t’ make off with all th’ fur. Good gracious, you know him!”

“Well,” said Thomas, a tinge of regret in his voice, for Hiram was both a good hunter and reliable man, “Indian Jake has my word he’s t’ go, and Tom Angus never goes back on his word.”

Uncle Ben grunted and grunted, and was soon in such ill humor because Thomas would not listen to his arguments to change his plan that he spread his blankets upon the floor, crawled into them, and was presently snoring uproariously.

And there was no doubt that Thomas had some misgivings about Indian Jake, because of Indian Jake’s bad record. And there was no doubt, too, that these misgivings had been increased by Uncle Ben, whose advice the folk of the Bay were accustomed to heed, for Uncle Ben’s judgment was in the long run uncommonly sound.

“But a man’s word is a man’s word,” said Thomas to himself, “and when a man gives un there’s no goin’ back on it, for that wouldn’t be straight dealin’, and first to last the man that keeps his word and deals straight comes out on top.”

And so Thomas kept his word and stuck to his bargain, as any man should, and in the twilight of Monday morning the boat was loaded, and when David and Andy said farewell Thomas told them to do their best, and Doctor Joe told them to stand up to their work like men, and Jamie told them to keep their grit, and Margaret cried a little, for The Jug was to be a lonely place now.

And then, with David and Andy waving to those on shore, the boat moved down the bight and out into the bay, until it passed from view around the point, and the three voyageurs were on their way at last to the great wilderness which was to hide them in its silent and mysterious depths for many long months.

VI
THE TRAPPING PARTNER

“Th’ wind’s freshenin’, and she feels like snow. I’m expectin’ a white camp tonight,” observed Indian Jake when they had passed out of The Jug and out of the view of the cabin.

“She does feel like snow,” said David, “but it’s a good wind for us, and if she holds where she is we’ll make a fine run up Grand Lake.”

“Yes,” agreed Indian Jake, blowing a mouthful of smoke from his pipe and watching its direction. “She’s east nor’east now, and fine. We’d better not lose any time stopping at the post.”

“No,” said David, “not with a fine breeze like this. Pop was four days gettin’ up th’ Lake last year, with contrary winds.”

It was a somber morning. Gray clouds hung low and the wind was damp and cold, but it was a fair wind, and before nine o’clock they came abreast the post. Zeke Hodge saw them and hailed and they answered his hail, but passed on into the river without stopping, at which Zeke marveled, for he had never before known a boat to pass the post without pausing at least for a brief call.

The tide was nearing flood, and this was vastly to their advantage in counteracting the river current, and the five miles to Grand Lake was accomplished in an hour.

“Oh, ’tis grand!” exclaimed Andy when the long vista of lake appeared before them.

“Aye,” said David, “’tis that, and that’s why she’s called Grand Lake, I’m thinkin’.”

At the eastern end of the lake, where they entered it, both the northern and southern shores were lined with low hills wooded to their summits with spruce, white birch, balsam fir, and tamarack, the foliage of the latter making golden splotches in the green. Some few miles up the lake the wooded hills on its southern shore gave place to naked mountains, with perpendicular cliffs rising sheer from the water’s edge for several hundred feet, grim and austere, but at the same time giving to the landscape a touch of grandeur and majestic beauty. In the far distance to the westward high peaks in an opalescent haze lifted their summits against the sky.

The vast and boundless wilderness inhabited by no human being other than a few wandering Indians, lay in somber and impressive silence, just as God had fashioned it untold ages before, untouched and unmarred by the hand of man. There were no smoking chimneys, no ugly brick walls, no shrieking locomotives; no sound to break the silence save the cry of startled gulls, soaring overhead, the honk of a flock of wild geese in southern flight, and the waves lapping upon the rocky shore. The air was fresh and spicy with the odor of balsam and other forest perfumes. It was a wilderness redolent with suggestions of mysteries hidden in the bosom of its unconquered and unmeasured solitudes and waiting for discovery.

“It makes me feel wonderful strange—t’ think I’m goin’ in there,” remarked Andy presently, gazing away over the dark forest which receded to the northward over rolling hills, “and t’ think we’re t’ be gone till th’ break-up next spring, an’ won’t see Pop or Margaret or Doctor Joe for so long.”

“Not gettin’ sorry you’re goin’, now, be you?” grinned Indian Jake.

“No, I’m not gettin’ sorry. Not me! I’m wonderful glad t’ be goin’,” Andy asserted stoutly.

“Better not think about the folks and home too much, or you’ll be gettin’ homesick,” counseled Indian Jake.

“I’m not like t’ get homesick!” and Andy’s voice suggested that nothing in the world was less likely to happen.

“Ah, but you’ll have a sore trial, lads,” said Indian Jake. “Wait till we’re deep in th’ trails, and winter settles, and th’ wind cuts t’ th’ bone, and th’ shiftin’ snow blinds you, and th’ cold’s like t’ freeze your blood, and t’ have t’ fight it for your very life. Then’s th’ time that you’ll be tried out for th’ stuff that’s in you—both of you. And you can’t rest then, for there’s fur t’ be got out of th’ traps, and there’s no one t’ get it but you, and you got t’ get it. Then, lads, you’ll be thinkin’ of your warm snug home at The Jug, with its big stove, and your cozy nest of a bed. There’s no rest for the trapper that makes a good hunt, lads. ’Tis the man that rests when th’ storms blow wild and the cold settles bitter and fierce, that makes th’ poor hunt. ’Tis always so with work.”

“We’ll stick to un, and make th’ good hunt,” David declared stoutly.

“Aye, we’ll stick to un, and not be gettin’ homesick, either. We’ll have plenty o’ grit,” said Andy.

“That’s the way to talk, lads!” said Indian Jake heartily. “Stick to it, lads, and have grit a plenty, and you’ll make a good hunt.”

“But I was thinkin’ o’ what a wonderful big place ’tis in there,” and Andy was again gazing at the forest-clad hills.

“’Tis a big place,” said Indian Jake.

“Pop says,” continued Andy, “that ’tis so big they’s no end to un.”

“Aye,” agreed Indian Jake, “no end to un.”

“And there’ll be nobody but just us in there,” and there was awe in Andy’s voice.

“Just us,” said Indian Jake.

Snow was falling when they made camp that evening in the shelter of the forest on the lake shore, and cozy and snug the tent was with a roaring fire in the stove, and the wind swirling the snow outside, and moaning through the tree tops. Indian Jake had said little during the afternoon, but now as he fried a pan of pork by the light of a sputtering candle, while David and Andy laid the bed of fragrant spruce boughs, he volunteered the information that they would be in the Nascaupee River early in the morning.

“That’s fine,” said David. “We made a wonderful day’s travel, now, didn’t we?”

Indian Jake did not reply, and the boys, too, fell into silence, until supper was eaten and Indian Jake had lighted his pipe. Then David asked:

“Where were you livin’ before you came to th’ Bay, Jake?”

“South,” grunted Indian Jake.

“Did your folks live there?” asked Andy.

“Yes,” answered Indian Jake.

“Why don’t yo bring un t’ th’ Bay t’ live, now you’re here?” asked Andy. “’Twould be fine t’ have your folks t’ live with you.”

“Because I can’t,” replied Indian Jake, in a tone that implied he was through talking.

“I’m wonderful sorry,” sympathized Andy.

“It’s too bad, now,” said David.

Indian Jake grunted again, but whether it was a grunt of appreciation or of resentment that they should have asked the questions, they could not tell, and quietly they spread their sleeping bags and slipped into them. They were to learn as the weeks passed that Indian Jake had a double personality—that he was both an Indian and a white man—and that he possessed traits of character peculiar to both.

It was Andy’s first night in camp, and for a time he lay awake wondering if Jamie and his father and Margaret were very lonely without him and David. And then he fell to listening to the wind and the crackling fire in the stove, and to watching in the dim light of the candle the dark outline of Indian Jake’s figure crouched before the stove and silently smoking. The half-breed’s face with its beaked nose was never a pleasant thing to see, and now it looked unusually sinister and forbidding to Andy. Presently it began to fade, and a great black wolf took its place, and Andy dreamed that the wolf was crouching over him and David, ready to devour them.

He awoke with a start. The candle light was out and all was darkness and strangely silent, with no sound save David’s deep breathing and the moan of wind through the trees. It was weird and lonely there in the darkness, and when Andy thought of how long it would be before he and David returned to The Jug again, it seemed still lonelier.

“I must have plenty o’ grit, and keep a stout heart, the way Jamie is doing,” he thought, and it gave him courage, and he slept again.