After all, what do any of us gain from worry, though all of us have reason enough for it sometimes. David and Andy resolved to believe that Indian Jake had really gone to The Jug. They were the better and more efficient for believing it. And they resolved to smile and be cheerful, too, and not fret and worry and stew about troubles that might not be troubles at all. But it required grit a-plenty, for often enough a suspicion of Indian Jake forced itself upon them.
On Saturday morning the boys devoted themselves to setting snares for rabbits. A dozen short pieces of stout twine found about the cabin were utilized for this purpose.
Building a snare is a simple process. A sapling is cut and laid across a rabbit run, and about a foot above it. One end of a piece of twine is tied to the sapling directly over the run, while the other end is formed into a noose, and with the bottom of the noose resting on the run, the top reaching to the sapling, it is held in position by upright sticks on each side. Brush is piled so high upon the sapling as to discourage passing rabbits from jumping over. Other brush filled in around both sides of the runway, prevents its going around, and it is thus forced to make a wide detour, which rabbits are not likely to do, or to pass through the noose. In the latter case it can scarcely escape being caught and choked by the noose.
It was interesting work for the boys. It occupied their attention and kept their thoughts free from surmises as to Indian Jake.
“They’ll get us some grub, whatever,” remarked David when the last snare was set. “I wish we could have fished, though. ’Twould have been surer, and rabbits gets t’ be such tiresome eatin’.”
“But they’re better than no eatin’,” Andy sagely observed.
“If we gets rabbits enough I’ll not be complainin’,” said David.
On Sunday morning two rabbits were found in the snares, and one more on Monday morning before the boys set out upon their journey to Lake Namaycush. David attended to the traps, while Andy devoted his attention to hunting, and on Tuesday evening when they reached the Lake Namaycush tilt he had added five spruce partridges, two ptarmigans and a porcupine to their store of provisions in excess of their daily requirements.
“You’re doin’ wonderful well, Andy,” David complimented, as he prepared supper. “You’re knockin’ over more birds than we can eat.”
“I’m thinkin’ we are, now,” agreed Andy with some pride. “We’ll not be goin’ hungry, whatever.”
“I got one marten to-day,” continued David. “He’s a poor one. Th’ fur is all like t’ be poor now, I’m thinkin’, so we may as well strike up. ’Tis a pity t’ kill th’ fur when it’s too poor t’ sell. If we leaves un now we’ll get un next year when they’re prime. What we gets now won’t help out any for Jamie, either.”
“Will we strike up before we goes back?” asked Andy.
“We’ll have t’ come in next week, whatever,” David explained. “We didn’t strike up on th’ way in. I’ll strike up on th’ big mesh tomorrow, and we’ll take everything down t’ th’ Narrows tilt that we’ll want t’ take down from here and th’ Halfway tilt. Next week finish strikin’ up, and take care o’ th’ traps, and our flat sled’ll be heavy enough.”
Accordingly the following day David struck up, and cached in convenient places the traps on the big marsh trail, and on the return to the Narrows the small remaining stock of flour and pork and tea was taken from the other two tilts to the Narrows tilt, to await the day of their departure for The Jug, and to be kept as a reserve in case of need.
Andy’s gun and the snares continued to keep them well supplied so far as their immediate needs were concerned, though they sorely missed the bread and pork to which they were accustomed, and which even in this brief time they learned to look upon as luxuries. However, adhering to their resolution to deny themselves, they set out upon their final journey to Lake Namaycush with no other provisions than rabbits and partridges, and a small amount of tea.
“I’m glad t’ be gettin’ ready t’ go home,” remarked Andy as they sat at supper on the evening they reached the Namaycush Lake tilt. “But it gives me a wonderful sorry feelin’ that th’ trappin’ is all over, and when we leaves here tomorrow we won’t come back again t’ Namaycush Lake this year.”
“That’s th’ way I feels, too,” admitted David. “I’ve been feelin’ that way all th’ time I’ve been strikin’ up. I’ve been thinkin’ how much we were expectin’ from th’ traps when we comes in th’ fall, and how we worked for a good hunt; and how—it’s all over with now.”
“And—not knowin’ for sure what Indian Jake does with th’ fur,” suggested Andy.
“If we only could be sure he took un t’ Pop,” said David, “and Jamie could go t’ th’ great doctor t’ have his eyes cured—then I’d feel wonderful happy.”
“He must have gone t’ Th’ Jug,” Andy said hopefully. “’Tis hard t’ think he didn’t. And, Davy, we said we’d just keep thinkin’ he did.”
“Aye, we’ll just keep thinkin’ he did, and we won’t trouble about un,” asserted David. “And we’ll pray th’ Lard ’tis th’ way we hopes.”
Their thoughts were full of the hopes and aspirations of the first evening when they came to the Namaycush Lake tilt. How dear to us are old aspirations and old hopes, dead, perhaps, with the dead weeks or years that have gone, but still living in our memory like the features of departed friends. Our aspirations may never be attained, our fondest hopes never be fulfilled, but once they encouraged and buoyed us, and made life appear a glorious field of attainment, as indeed it is. If life were never flavored by day dreams, how dull and dreary it would sometimes be.
Great deeds are born in imagination. Imagination prompts us to attainment. It lifts us to higher levels. In the proportion in which we possess it, imagination urges us to apply our ambitions and our efforts to gain the things we dream of. Because of it we climb higher and travel farther, and become so much bigger and nobler men than ever we could have been had we never dreamed.
But, O, the bitter disappointment of shattered hopes! ’Tis a brave man that rises above failure, and tries again. This is the test of a man’s mettle. This is God’s way, I sometimes think, of sifting the grain from the chaff. The men who are worth while never give up. They stick and stick, and try again and again, until they win out in the end. The others surrender hope at the first reverse, and like chaff are blown away by the wind of oblivion.
David and Andy were silent for a long while. They were living over those early days of the winter when they came upon the trail dreaming of success and determined to attain it. Now the winter was past and the hunting was at an end. Was all their effort lost? Was Jamie, after all, to go blind because one day they neglected the simple precaution of wearing their snow glasses?
“We were expectin’ to do so much when we came in th’ fall,” remarked Andy, sorrowfully, when they had finally filled the stove with wood, and settled in their sleeping bags. “We made a grand hunt, even if Indian Jake stole th’ fur. But if he stole un ’twon’t do Jamie any good and it’s too late now t’ catch any more.”
“I were thinkin’, Andy,” said David, clinging to a forlorn hope, “that maybe Doctor Joe were makin’ a mistake about Jamie’s eyes. Maybe Jamie won’t go blind so soon, and next year’ll be in time for he t’ go t’ th’ great doctor—if Indian Jake stole th’ fur.”
“Do you think so, now, Davy?” Andy asked expectantly.
“I’m just sayin’ maybe,” said David, cautiously. “If ’tis so, when Pop’ll come next year t’ hunt th’ Seal Lake trail maybe he’ll let me hunt this trail, and we’ll be sure then t’ get fur enough t’ pay for th’ cure.”
“I’d have t’ stay home with Margaret, and I’d like t’ be here and help hunt th’ trail—and—get th’ fur t’ cure Jamie,” said Andy regretfully.
“You’ll be helpin’, Andy, by stayin’ home th’ way Pop had t’ do this year,” comforted David.
And so, in the face of supposed defeat, they planned for the future, and, planning, fell asleep.
It was an hour later when David awoke half suffocated with smoke. His ears at the same time caught the crackling of burning wood. He sprang from his bed, and seizing Andy, shouted:
“Andy! The tilt’s afire! Andy, get up!”
In an instant Andy, too, was out of bed.
“Grab your clothes and sleepin’ bag,” cried David excitedly.
“I’m chokin’!” coughed Andy.
“Hurry!” shouted David. “Hurry, or we’ll be caught here!”
There was scarce a moment to spare. The tilt had taken fire from the overheated stove, and one side was already in flames. Fortunately the doorway was clear, and the lads, gaining it, had barely time to pitch their clothing and sleeping bags out into the snow, and themselves escape into the cold night.
Flames were already breaking out between the logs on the side nearest to which stood the stove. Smoke was pouring out of the tilt door in a cloud. The boys were dazed and bewildered with their sudden awakening, but the fire was already beyond control, and was so far advanced that any attempt to salvage their belongings would have proved fruitless and foolhardy.
The bitter cold of the April night quickly roused them to activity. David rescued their axes, which were sticking into a stump near the tilt door, and their toboggan which fortunately had not been laid against the tilt, as was customary, was drawn to a safe distance. Then, using the toboggan for a seat, they drew on their clothing, and stood impotently and silently watching the burning tilt.
“I’m glad we didn’t have any o’ th’ traps stowed in there,” remarked David presently.
“Our—our rifles are burned!” choked Andy.
“The rifles! I went and forgot un!” exclaimed David, in consternation. “I went and forgot un! I might’ve pitched un out with th’ sleepin’ bags!”
“What ever will we do without un?” asked Andy. “We can’t do any huntin’ now!”
“Our snowshoes!” broke in David. “We clean forgot our snowshoes! We could have saved un, too, if we’d only thought!”
The snowshoes had been hanging on a peg just outside the tilt door, for trappers do not take snowshoes into warm tilts, where the heat would injure the babish, or netting. Smoke issuing from the door had hidden them, and in the bewilderment following their escape the boys had quite forgotten them. Now, like the rifles, the snowshoes were in the ruins of the burning tilt, and destroyed.
This was indeed a sad loss. In the woods snow lay a dozen feet deep, and to move about without the assistance of snowshoes was quite impossible. The game which Andy had accumulated was in the ruins, save two partridges which had been left at the Halfway tilt, and there was no other food nearer than the Narrows. Deprived of their snowshoes they could neither visit their rabbit traps nor set new ones.
“How’ll we make out now?” asked Andy hopelessly. “We can’t travel without snowshoes.”
“Maybe the snow on the river ice is packed hard enough t’ bear us,” suggested David. “Leastways we’ll have t’ try un. We’ve got t’ get t’ th’ Narrows tilt, whatever.”
Silently they lashed their sleeping bags upon the toboggan and made preparations for a night journey to the Halfway tilt. They could not reconnoiter for a suitable place to build a temporary shelter in the soft snow of the woods, as Andy had done when he was alone. A step beyond the packed snow around the tilt, or the more or less packed path leading down to the lake, where they had a water hole in the ice, would plunge them to their armpits.
“I’ll haul th’ flatsled,” suggested David, tightening the lashings of the toboggan. “You go ahead, Andy, and pick out th’ path t’ th’ water hole. We can make un all right t’ th’ lake, and we keeps t’ th’ hard path.”
Fortunately it was starlight, and though one or the other now and again stepped off the path, and each time had a brief battle with the deep snow, they at length emerged upon the white expanse of Lake Namaycush. Here the wind had packed the snow so hard that, though they sank nearly to their knees at every step, walking was not unduly difficult until they reached the river bed.
“’Twon’t be so good travelin’ here as on th’ Lake,” said David. “But I’m thinkin’ we’ll make un.”
David’s prediction was correct. In every turn of the river were deep drifts through which they floundered. Sometimes it became necessary to push the toboggan over these difficult places, using it as a support, working their way foot by foot. Slow and exhausting as it was, they stuck to it with a will, but when day broke they had traveled less than a third of the distance to the Halfway tilt.
“I’m fair scrammed!” Andy at length declared. “I’ve got t’ rest. Can’t we put on a fire and ’bide here and rest a little while?”
“Aye,” agreed David. “’Tis wearisome work. We’ll put on a fire and rest, but we mustn’t ’bide here too long. We’ll have t’ reach th’ tilt before night.”
An hour’s rest, sitting on the toboggan before a cheerful fire in the lee of the river bank, revived them.
“If we only had our snowshoes, and a bit t’ eat!” said Andy, when David suggested that it was time to go. “I’m fair starved!”
“And so be I!” David declared. “’Tis a long time since supper last evenin’. We’ll have th’ partridges, whatever, when we gets t’ th’ Halfway tilt.”
“It seems like I never can stand un so long,” said Andy. “I’m weak for hunger.”
Andy was to learn in the days that followed, what real hunger is, but he was brave enough, and not given to complaint. It is well, sometimes, for all of us to be tried out by the test of experience. Only through experience can we learn the stuff we are made of, and only through deprivations of the comforts to which we are accustomed can we learn to appreciate the good things of life. Most of us are too prone to take things for granted, and to forget that what we have and enjoy are the gifts of a benign Providence.
Many times that day David and Andy declared they “could not walk another step,” but they pushed and floundered bravely on until, in the dusk of evening, they stumbled at last into the friendly shelter of the Halfway tilt.
They were almost too weary to build a fire, but hunger conquered weariness, and presently with a roaring fire in the stove, and one of the partridges boiling—for, famished as they were, David insisted that the other one must be reserved for breakfast—they felt more cheerful. Fortunately they had left some tea in the tilt, and while their supper of half a boiled partridge each and a cup of tea was far from satisfying their healthy young appetites, it refreshed them.
“I’m thinkin’,” remarked David, as they ate, “we’ve got a rare lot t’ be thankful for. Th’ good Lard woke me up just in time last night. If I’d slept a bit longer we’d both been smothered with th’ smoke and burned up.”
“’Twere lucky you wakes,” agreed Andy.
“I’m thinkin’ ’tweren’t luck, now,” protested David. “I’m thinkin’ th’ Lard were watchin’, and wakes us just th’ right time.”
“And maybe,” suggested Andy, in an awed voice, “’twere like we were sayin’. Maybe Mother was close by, watchin’, and maybe she asked th’ Lard to waken us.”
“Yes,” said David, “I been thinkin’ o’ that too. There’s no doubtin’ spirits walks about, and shows theirselves, too, sometimes. Uncle Hi Roper saw an Injun down t’ th’ Post one night paddlin’ a canoe around. He was an Injun that had been dead fifteen years, whatever. Uncle Hi knew he, and called to he, but th’ Injun didn’t answer because he were just a spirit. He kept on paddlin’ and paddlin’ in a circle, and never speakin’. It scared Uncle Hi, and he ran in and told Zeke Hodge, and Zeke comes out, but he couldn’t see th’ Injun then. He’d just disappeared.”
“Oh-h!” breathed Andy. “I’d been scared too! But I wouldn’t be scared at Mother’s spirit.”
“I’d—I’d be glad t’ see un,” said David.
But if their mother’s spirit came that night to look lovingly upon her two brave boys, they did not know it. They had rested but a short time the previous night, and, exhausted from their struggle of nearly twenty hours with the snow drifts, they quickly fell into sound and dreamless sleep.
It was long past daylight when they awoke, to the sound of shrieking wind, and when David looked out of the tilt door he was met by a cloud of driving snow.
“’Tis a wonderful nasty day,” he said.
“Is it too bad t’ travel?” asked Andy, anxiously.
“Aye,” said David regretfully. “We never could face un. We’ll have t’ bide here.”
“And we only has one pa’tridge t’ eat!” mourned Andy.
“Only one pa’tridge,” repeated David solemnly.
“Whatever will we do without eatin’?” asked Andy.
“We’ll have t’ make un do, whatever,” declared David. “They’s no other way.”
“I’m fair starved now,” said Andy. “All we had t’ eat th’ whole of yesterday was half a pa’tridge each.”
“We’ll make out with un. We’ve got tea,” cheered David. “And maybe th’ wind’ll pack th’ snow so th’ travelin’ll be better tomorrow—if th’ storm breaks. ’Tis like t’ be better from this on, anyhow, for th’ river’s wider.”
“If we eats th’ pa’tridge now,” Andy calculated, “we won’t have anything t’ eat to-night or in th’ marnin’!”
“Suppose,” David suggested, “we cooks half of un now, and just drinks th’ broth for breakfast, and keeps th’ meat for night. Then we’ll have th’ other half t’ eat in th’ marnin’ before we starts out.”
“I’m too hungry t’ be waitin’ like that,” objected Andy. “Let’s eat th’ meat now and th’ broth tonight, and keep th’ other half for marnin’!”
David’s hunger doubtless cast the deciding vote, for though reason told him the plan he had suggested was the wiser, his hunger got the better of his judgment. And they were still so hungry when the small portion had been disposed of that in the end they ate the broth as well.
It was a miserable day for the lads. No matter what they talked about their conversation always drifted back to food. They could not avoid it, for food was the thing uppermost in their minds.
A hundred times that day one or the other went out of doors into the storm in the hope that they might discover some sign of its abatement, always to be met by the smothering drift, and when they arose the following morning snow was still falling heavily, though the wind had lost much of its force. They ate the half partridge remaining, but it served only to whet their appetites.
“Th’ snow’s fallin’ thicker’n ever,” announced David, after an inspection late in the afternoon.
“It just seems like I can’t stand un, I’m so hungry!” declared Andy. “Suppose now we start tomorrow marnin’, whatever. I’m thinkin’ we might make un,” he added hopefully.
“We never could make un,” David objected. “We’d perish. We’ll have t’ ’bide here till th’ weather clears. I’m as famished as you be, Andy, b’y, but we’ll have t’ put up with un.”
“It seems like I’d just die o’ hunger!” mourned Andy.
“Sometimes men goes without eatin’ for a week,” consoled David, “and it don’t kill un if they don’t give up to un. There’ll be some way out. Pop says there’s a way out’n every fix if you sticks to it and don’t get scared or give up.”
“Aye,” said Andy, with new courage, “I were thinkin’ of that th’ time I were caught out above th’ big mesh, and then I makes a shelter and I’m all right.”
The thought consoled them both, and though still they talked of food, it was now in the manner of planning great feasts when they should reach home.
“We’ll have Margaret cook us a fine big mess o’ pork, and we’ll eat all we wants, with bread and molasses t’ go with un,” suggested David.
“Oh, but won’t that be eatin’ now!” enthused Andy. “And there’ll be plenty o’ trout, too, when we gets out, and salmon’ll be runnin’ th’ middle o’ July! I could eat half a salmon now if I had un!”
The wind had died out, though all that night the snow fell, but in mid-forenoon of the following day the clouds lightened, and shortly after noon the sun broke out, warm and brilliant.
“We can start now!” exclaimed Andy, “and we’ll make th’ narrows tilt before midnight, whatever, and have a good supper.”
“We can try un,” said David dubiously, “but I’m fearin’ we’ll find th’ fresh snow more than we can manage. There’s been no wind for a day t’ drive un off th’ ice, and yesterday and last night it snowed wonderful hard.”
David was correct. They had found the river bed badly clogged on their journey down from the Lake Namaycush tilt. Now it was vastly worse. They sank to their waists, the moment they attempted to leave the tilt, and finally, quite satisfied that travel was impossible, they retreated disconsolate and discouraged to the tilt.
“We’ll starve now,” said Andy, in a tone almost of resignation. “There’s no way out.”
“’Tis a wonderful bad fix,” David admitted.
“I’m growin’—wonderful weak—in th’ knees,” Andy confessed.
“I feels a weakness, too,” said David, “but not so much hunger as yesterday.”
“’Tis queer, now, but I’m not feelin’ th’ hunger so bad, either. But I feels sleepy and weak,” Andy agreed. “I wonders, now, why ’tis? I were thinkin’ we’d grow hungrier and hungrier, till we couldn’t stand un.”
“’Tis strange,” admitted David, “not bein’ so hungry. But I feels like I could eat anything that could be et, and I’m sleepy, too.”
That is the way with folk who starve. While there’s a bit of food to be had the appetite remains keen, and troublesome, but when the food is gone, a day or two of fastin’ finds the appetite waning, and the eyes growing heavy and drowsy, and over the body steals lassitude and weariness.
David and Andy were prisoners, but it was not their nature to give up and resign themselves to their fate until every expedient had been tried. Thomas had said there was a way out of every fix. This was a bad fix—the worst they had ever been in, they were sure, but if there was a way out of it they must try to discover the way.
“There must be a way, now, Davy!” Andy declared, after a long discussion. “Pop says there’s no fix so bad we can’t get out of un if we only thinks out how.”
“If we had any lashin’,” suggested David, “we might fix up somethin’ that would do for snowshoes. But there’s no deerskin, and there’s nothin’ else, I’m thinkin’, would do.”
“There’s th’ rope on th’ flatsled,” said Andy hopefully.
“That wouldn’t make th’ net for one snowshoe,” objected David.
“Let’s get some sticks and bend un into snowshoe frames, and maybe we’ll think o’ some way t’ net un,” suggested Andy. “’Twill be tryin’, whatever!”
“Aye,” agreed David, “’twill be doin’ somethin’, but I’m seein’ no way t’ make th’ nettin’.”
And so, though it seemed futile enough so far as solving their problem was concerned, they cut the necessary sticks close by the tilt door, and set about their task. With an Indian crooked knife David squared and trimmed the sticks into shape, and, steaming them over the kettle, rendered them pliable. Then they bent and tied them.
All that afternoon and next forenoon they worked unceasingly at their task, and at length the frames of two pairs of bear’s paw snowshoes, each snowshoe with one crossbar to stiffen it, were ready for netting.
But think as they would, that seemed the end. There were no deerskin thongs, and not even rope with which to improvise the netting. The boys were steadily growing weaker, and they had almost decided that after all they were in a “fix” from which there was no possible escape, when Andy made a suggestion that revived their hope.
“Davy, I’ve got un! I’ve got un!” Andy suddenly shouted, seizing his sleeping bag with a display of frenzied joy.
“Got what?” asked David anxiously.
“Th’ sleepin’ bags! Th’ sleepin’ bags!” said Andy excitedly. “Don’t you see, Davy?”
“Aye, that’s a sleepin’ bag, I sees,” admitted David, quite startled by Andy’s unusual behavior, and certain enough the lad had gone stark mad, as sometimes happens with starving people.
“And we never thought of un!” explained Andy. “We never thought of un, and they right before our eyes all th’ time! We can cut un into strips and net th’ snowshoes with un!”
“Why didn’t we ever think o’ that, now!” exclaimed David, springing up and seizing his sleeping bag, now no less excited than was Andy himself.
It is the obvious that most of us overlook. The simple things that are before us are the things we never see. There, to be sure, were the sleeping bags. Cut into strips, the sealskins of which they were made would serve very well indeed for netting the snowshoes.
“A skin or two out of one of un’ll be plenty,” said David, opening his jackknife and proceeding at once to cut the sinew with which the bag was sewn. “One skin out’n my bag’ll be enough, Andy, don’t cut yours. You’re wonderful at thinkin’ up things, Andy. I never would have thought of un!”
“I just happened t’ think of un first,” said Andy, unwilling to take to himself all the credit.
Presently one of the sealskins was freed from the bag, and while Andy held it, David, working carefully with his jackknife, cutting around the edge in a spiral, soon reduced it into a single long string.
“Now we’ll have to soak un to make un soft,” said David, dropping the lashing into a kettle of water. “’Twon’t take long.”
Weaving the web upon the frames demanded patience, but late that night the snowshoes were finished, and though they were crude and roughly made, they were strong and serviceable enough for the purpose for which they were required.
“Pop always says right,” remarked Andy, when they hung the four snowshoes on the tilt wall to dry, and stood for a moment surveying their handiwork. “There is always a way out o’ the worst fix ever happened, if we only finds out what ’tis.”
“Aye,” agreed David, “out of any fix!”
“They’ll save our lives,” said Andy. “I—I feels almost like cryin’, Davy.”
“Th’ Lard put un into your head t’ try th’ sealskin, Andy,” David spoke reverently. “Th’ Lard always seems t’ be watchin’ and helpin’ us, whatever happens, and we does what we can t’ help ourselves.”
“Aye,” said Andy, “He does that.”
And all in all the boys were right. He never does much for those who simply pray to Him, and then sit idly with folded hands and expect Him to do the rest. He gave us eyes to see and hands to work and planted in us the power to reason, and He filled the earth with all things necessary for the support of life. He expects us to do our best at all times—to use our brains, and hands and eyes and all our faculties—and then if we have faith He helps us to success, and our success in big things and little things alike depends upon how far we do our best.
It was scarce daybreak when, weak from their long fast, but happy in the assurance that their imprisonment was at an end and that safety was promised them, the boys donned their new snowshoes, and set out to the Narrows tilt.
The snowshoes proved over-small, and sank deeply into the new, soft snow. This held the boys to a slow pace, with the tedious and wearisome effort it demanded, and the sun had set before they made the last turn in the river above the tilt. David was hauling the toboggan, laden with their belongings, while Andy trudged in advance, both dragging their feet with painful effort. Suddenly Andy stopped, peering at the tilt, and shouted excitedly to David:
“Look! Look, Davy! There’s some one at the tilt!”
And David, looking, discovered smoke curling cheerfully up from the stovepipe.
Hurrying forward they were met at the door by a welcoming:
“Good gracious! Good gracious! And here you are! Both of you safe and sound. Dear eyes!” and a hearty handshake from Uncle Ben Rudder and Hiram Muggs.
Tears filled the eyes of both the lads as they grasped the big strong hands of their rescuers. The two men were a connecting link with The Jug and home, and with their appearance a vast load of responsibility rolled from the shoulders of David and Andy. Their lonely struggle with the wilderness was at an end.
“Where’s Indian Jake? Good gracious, where’s Indian Jake?” Uncle Ben exploded.
“We’re starvin’. We haven’t had anything to eat in days and days,” said David, irrevelantly.
Uncle Ben and Hiram were solicitous at once. They hurried the boys into the tilt, and would not permit them to talk or explain until they had eaten a supper of boiled partridges and camp bread and tea which Hiram had already prepared for himself and Uncle Ben.
“Don’t talk, now, but eat! Good gracious! starvin’! Eat, now, lads! Fill up! Fill up!” Uncle Ben kept repeating, though the manner in which the boys ate made it manifestly unnecessary for him to urge them.
When they had eaten until they could eat no more, and altogether more than was well for them, David recounted the events of the preceding weeks, while Uncle Ben interjected at frequent intervals one or all of his favorite exclamations:
“Good gracious! I told you so! D-e-a-r eyes!”
“And,” added David at the conclusion of his narrative, “’twas wonderful fine for you t’ come here t’ help us out.”
“And so Indian Jake has gone!” said Uncle Ben. “Good gracious! I warned Thomas Angus not t’ trust that half-breed!”
“But—but don’t you suppose now he’s gone home with th’ fur?” asked David anxiously.
“Gone home with un? Good gracious, no! I’d never go home with un!” declared Uncle Ben. “And you saw no tracks which way he were goin’?”
“No,” answered David dejectedly, “th’ snow had covered un before we gets here.”
“Hum-m-m! Hum-m-m!” grunted Uncle Ben several times. “He’s well out o’ th’ country by now. Good gracious, yes! No catchin’ him now. And gone with all th’ fur! Good gracious! Good gracious me, with all th’ fur!”
Then he explained that he and Hiram had gone directly to his home at Tuggle Bight after his visit at The Jug in the fall, and all the way home they had talked of how foolish and headstrong Thomas Angus was in sending Indian Jake to the trails with David and Andy.
“And I says t’ Hiram: ‘Hiram,’ says I, ‘Thomas Angus and Doctor Joe has got t’ have th’ fur them lads gets, t’ have th’ little lad cured, and we got t’ see to it that Indian Jake don’t steal un!’ Good gracious, yes! I says that t’ Hiram. Didn’t I, Hiram?”
“You did, now,” agreed Hiram.
“Then we fixes it up t’ trap along the Nascaupee th’ winter, where no one could get out o’ th’ country without our seein’ ’em,” continued Uncle Ben. “Dear eyes, we had un all fixed right, but our plan missed fire! Good gracious! She missed fire! Indian Jake must ha’ seen our tilt with his Indian eyes, and sneaked past down t’other side o’ th’ river in th’ night, and we never see him! Good gracious, never seen hide or hair or feather of him! He must ha’ done that, Hiram?”
“He must ha’ done it,” said Hiram solemnly.
“I were expectin’ he’d try t’ steal Tom Angus’s third o’ th’ fur he hunted, whatever,” declared Uncle Ben, “but I weren’t certain he’d steal your fur, too, lads. Good gracious, no! I knew he were bad, but I didn’t think he’d do that! And he’s gone with un all, lock, stock and barrel! And we’ll never see him again. The scamp! Good gracious, yes, a scamp! Nothin’ else but a scamp, and such a scamp as I never thought lived! D-e-a-r eyes!”
“A wonderful scamp!” agreed Hiram.
Uncle Ben and Hiram had struck up their traps, and then come up the river to Seal Lake to “keep an eye,” as Uncle Ben said, on Indian Jake until the break-up. They had expected to return with the boys and Indian Jake, stopping at their tilt for their own furs as they passed down the Nascaupee, and then, still acting as guard, continue with the boys until the furs were safely delivered to Thomas at The Jug.
“You lads need us now to cheer you a bit! Dear eyes! You needs cheerin’,” Uncle Ben declared. “We’ll wait here for th’ break-up and all go home together, and we’ll cheer you. Good gracious, yes!”
But now that David and Andy were assured their precious furs were really gone they felt anything but cheered. And that night, and for many nights that followed, their hearts were heavy indeed.
“What, now, would become of Jamie?” was the question always on their mind, and they could not answer it, and they even forgot Doctor Joe’s cheerful song.
They could picture Jamie, and their father, and Margaret, and Doctor Joe, with loving and abiding confidence and faith in them waiting at home for their return. Jamie’s lifelong happiness depended upon the furs that had been stolen. Doctor Joe had said that Jamie would become blind if he did not go to the great doctor for the cure. Now Jamie could not go, and the ordeal of their homecoming empty-handed, and the disappointment of Jamie and the others, seemed to them more than they could bear. And when they thought of all this they almost regretted that they had not indeed perished in the blizzard, or starved in the tilt.
With the coming of May the sun grew bold, and fearlessly poured forth his genial warmth. The end of the reign of the once mighty frost monarch, who had so long ruled the world, was at hand. The snow began rapidly to shrink, rains fell, and presently the ice-clogged river and lake were open and free again.
With the break-up immediate preparations were made for departure, and one day the boat was loaded, and the homeward journey was begun.
The descent of the river was much more rapid than the ascent had been, for now they had the current with them. Below the carry around the big rapids was the tilt where Uncle Ben and Hiram had spent the winter. Here the two men transferred their belongings to their own boat, and three days later the two boats passed out of Grand Lake, and in mid-afternoon reached the Post.
Zeke Hodge met them at the landing with vociferous greetings and welcome, but he could offer no comfort. He had seen nothing of Indian Jake since the day he had observed the half-breed and the boys on their way to the trails the previous autumn.
“Of course not! Good gracious, no!” observed Uncle Ben. “To be sure you didn’t see him. He wouldn’t come this way. He wouldn’t go where folks could see him. The scamp has run out o’ th’ country with all th’ furs!”
And thus, their last hope that Indian Jake might, after all, have returned to The Jug banished, and with no possibility that the half-breed could be overtaken and the furs recovered, David and Andy said good-bye to Uncle Ben and Hiram, and continued upon their journey home with sorrowful and heavy hearts.
The sun was setting when they approached the entrance of The Jug. Evening shadows were already stealing down over the hills when they turned into the bight and the cabin came into view, and the voice of Roaring Brook, shouting a welcome, fell upon their ears.
And then they saw their father and Doctor Joe come hurrying down to meet them at the landing, and Margaret running to join them, as excited as she could be, and finally Jamie—poor, pathetic little Jamie—groping his way more slowly, and shouting to them at the top of his voice.
A moment later they were ashore with Jamie clinging to them, and Margaret hugging them and laughing and crying at the same time, and Thomas and Doctor Joe looking as pleased as ever two men could look.
Then the pent-up sorrow and disappointment in their hearts burst bounds, and these two lads who had fearlessly faced a wolf pack, and braved the wild blizzards and bitter cold of an arctic winter in the wilderness, broke down and wept.
In the cozy shelter of the cabin, in the long twilight, David and Andy told their story. And everybody praised their courage, and nobody blamed them, for they were guilty of no blame.
“You kept plenty o’ grit,” soothed Jamie, “and you couldn’t help Indian Jake’s takin’ th’ fur, and—and maybe it won’t be so bad goin’ blind—when I gets used to un.”
Oh, but Jamie, too, had grit, and grit a-plenty.
They tried now, one and all—save Doctor Joe, perhaps—to become reconciled to Jamie’s coming blindness. The great doctor and the marvelous cure were no longer mentioned. Thomas and the boys got the fishing nets out, and methodically went about their duties.
Doctor Joe did not return at once to Break Cove. He seemed to have lost heart and ambition. He ceased to sing his cheerful songs, and he would go out alone and for hours wander away into the forest, or pace up and down the gravelly beach of The Jug, and sometimes, with a frightened look in his face, he would sit and stare at Jamie.
On one of these occasions, on an afternoon a fortnight after the return of David and Andy, Doctor Joe, after watching Jamie for a long while, sprang suddenly to his feet, and, standing a dozen feet from Jamie, held out three fingers of his right hand and asked Jimmie to count them.
“I can’t make un out,” said Jamie. “They’re in a heavy mist.”
“Now count them,” and Doctor Joe moved nearer.
“I can’t make un out,” repeated Jamie.
And Doctor Joe must needs approach within six feet of Jamie before the lad could see them sufficiently well to count them.
When the test was made, Doctor Joe without a word donned his cap and passed out of doors and strode away, up the path and into the forest, and on and on.
Suddenly he stopped, and holding his clenched fist out at arm’s length watched it closely.
“As steady as ever it was!” he said at length. “Perhaps I can do it! If only I haven’t lost my skill! If only I could forget those years and that horrible failure.”
For a little he stood silent, beads of perspiration on his forehead.
“I can’t do it,” he said at length, and turning slowly retraced his steps toward The Jug.
He stopped again, however, as the cabin came into view, and for a long time stood deep in thought.
“But I must do it—there’s no other way!” he finally exclaimed with determination. And, turning his back on The Jug, he strode rapidly away toward Break Cove.
It was nearly four hours later when Doctor Joe reappeared at The Jug, with a packet under his arm.
“We were missin’ you,” greeted Thomas, as Doctor Joe entered the cabin. “Set in and have supper with Margaret. She’s kept un on th’ stove for you, and she’s waited t’ eat with you.”
“It’s kind of you, but can you wait a little, Margaret? There’s something I must say to your father before I eat,” and there was a new, strong note in Doctor Joe’s voice.
“Oh, yes,” agreed Margaret cheerfully, “I’m in no hurry.”
“Thomas,” said Doctor Joe, looking straight into Thomas’s face and plunging immediately into the matter, “Jamie’s eyes have reached a point where they must be operated upon at once or he will be beyond human help. I know you’re resigned to this, but I’m not. So long as there is the possibility of saving his sight we must do what there is to do. Thomas, I shall operate on them, with your consent. I have fetched my instruments from Break Cove.”
“Can—can you do un then?” and Thomas’s face brightened with fresh hope.
“There is none but me to do it, and we cannot see the lad go blind without an effort to save his eyes. Thomas, do you believe in me?” There was pathetic pleading in Doctor Joe’s voice.
“Believe in you! There’s nary a man I believes in more!” and Doctor Joe knew that Thomas was sincere.
“Thank you, Thomas,” said Doctor Joe, a quaver in his voice. “That means more to me than you will ever understand. But I must tell you about myself, for I want you to know all about me before I operate upon Jamie’s eyes, and when you have heard what I have to say you may not wish to trust me.
“I was once a skilful eye surgeon in New York,” he began, after a moment’s silence, “and I performed many difficult operations. The one ambition of my life was to be known as the greatest eye surgeon in my country, and my ambition was finally realized.
“But I had become addicted to liquor, which I first took to stimulate me when I was very tired, and to steady my nerves, usually on occasions when I had denied myself proper rest, or when weary from overwork. At length there came a time when I could not do without it, and I always fortified myself with a dose before beginning an operation. Sometimes in the midst of long operations it would lose its stimulating effect to such an extent that my hand would become uncertain and unsteady. One day, because of this, I ruined a patient’s sight.
“That was the last operation I ever performed. I turned my patients over to a young surgeon who had assisted me, and he is the great doctor I hoped might operate on Jamie’s eyes, for he has taken the place I once held.
“I made a desperate effort to break myself of the liquor habit, but I soon discovered this to be impossible so long as I remained where liquor could be had. It had broken my will and power of resistance, and shattered my nerves to such an extent that I could not again trust myself with the surgeon’s knife. The desire for liquor had become a disease with me, as it is with many a man, and in its presence I was irresponsible. Liquor, you know, is a poisonous drug, just as opium is, and the man who becomes addicted to its use is to be pitied.
“There was but one cure for me, and that was to go where it was not to be had. So in desperation I came north to The Labrador, and left the mail boat at Fort Pelican, where I bought the old boat which I was sailing up the bay when you hailed me that day eight years ago. Do you remember, Thomas, how nervous and restless I was?”
“Aye, you were a bit shaky, and we were sayin’ you had been sick,” admitted Thomas.
“I was sick then. If you had not taken me in, a stranger of whom you knew nothing, and had not helped me with your friendship, I should have returned to New York and ruin. I felt that if I could remain until the freeze-up came that year, and the mail boat stopped running, I would have my longings conquered before another summer came around. God knows how hard it was, even then, for me to stay. More than once that fall I said to myself of a night, ‘I can’t stand it any longer! I must go!’ But each morning you held me with kindness, and your sturdy, wholesome life, and each morning I resolved to stay, whatever my suffering might be.
“And so it came to pass that you cured me by reaching out to me a helping hand when I needed it, and so I have remained on The Labrador year after year, until I am cured of my old thirst and no longer feel a desire for liquor. I shall never regain my old position as the greatest eye surgeon in my country, Thomas, but, thank God, I am more than that. I am a sane, strong man again, and after all, man is the greatest thing God ever created.”
Doctor Joe, his face beaming, held out his clenched fist, as he had done before in the forest.
“See!” he exclaimed. “There’s no shake to that! I’ve a man’s steady nerve, because you cured me, Thomas Angus, by making it possible for me to live as a clean man should.”
“’Tis wonderful steady!” said Thomas, quite astonished and moved by Doctor Joe’s story.
“And now that you’ve heard who I am, and what I’ve been,” and there was an anxious look in Doctor Joe’s face, “are you willing to trust Jamie’s sight with me, Tom? Any doctor might fail, and my hand might not work true, and if I fail, or if I make a mistake, Jamie will never see again. But on the other hand, unless something is done, and done at once, Jamie will surely go blind.”
“Doctor Joe,” said Thomas in a strangely husky voice, “I’d rather have you do th’ cuttin’ than the other doctor, whatever. I knows what you says is right, and you’ll do un better than any other doctor could because you’re fond of Jamie and he’s fond of you, and you’re my friend. Whatever comes of un will be th’ Almighty’s will, and if Jamie goes blind after th’ cuttin’ I’ll never be complainin’.”
“Oh, Doctor Joe!” said Margaret, who had been listening, fascinated by Doctor Joe’s story, and whose eyes were moist with tears, “we all trusts you! We trusts you more than we trusts anybody else in the world!”
And Doctor Joe’s emotions nearly got the better of him when Jamie came over and put his hand in his.
“To-morrow, then,” said Doctor Joe, “we’ll operate. Jamie, are you afraid to have me cut the mist away?”
“No,” said Jamie stoutly, “I’d never be afraid t’ have you cut un away.”
“But you have got grit, now!” exclaimed Doctor Joe.
And so, with much hope and much foreboding, Jamie was prepared for the operation the following morning, and he was as brave as ever a little lad could be when, quite unassisted, he climbed upon the operating table which Doctor Joe had improvised.
Then Thomas, under Doctor Joe’s direction, applied the ether, while Doctor Joe watched its effect, and quickly Jamie passed into unconsciousness.
Deftly, and with a feather-like touch, Doctor Joe with a delicate instrument made a triangular incision upon the membrane which covered the white of one of Jamie’s eyes, and turning the membrane back removed a minute button-shaped piece from the exposed eyeball. Immediately this was done a fluid began to drain through the slight opening, and Doctor Joe spread the membrane back into place.
The other eye was treated in similar manner, and the eyes quickly bandaged by Doctor Joe. And then the unconscious Jamie was gently lifted into Thomas’s bunk, which Margaret had prepared for him.
Not a word had been spoken during all this time save by Doctor Joe, as he issued sharp, crisp directions to Thomas or Margaret. And now, when he looked up, there was a new alert enthusiasm in his face—a something they had never seen there before.
“We never can tell the result,” said he, “until the bandage is removed, but I never operated more skilfully. Sometimes it doesn’t cure, but it is the only thing to be done in such cases, and we’ll hope we have succeeded.”
They were still standing by the side of Jamie’s bed when the door opened, and David, turning to see who was entering, cried, excitedly:
“Jake! ’Tis Jake! Here’s Jake!”
And sure enough it was Indian Jake, with the bags of furs, and when he beheld David and Andy he stood staring at them quite as though they were not boys at all, but ghosts.
Thomas and all greeted Indian Jake as cordially as they could have done had there never been a suspicion of his honesty, and he was contrite and sorry enough that his delay had caused them pain and worry.
“When I thought the lads had perished,” said he, “I knew that I’d have t’ get out of th’ country on snowshoes, so I could haul my load on a flatsled, for I never could have managed the boat over the portage without help, and I started right off. The break-up caught me at the mouth of th’ Nascaupee, where I stopped t’ hunt bear. Then I waited till th’ Injuns came along with canoes yesterday, and gave me a passage down.”
Then he handed David and Andy the furs over the loss of which they had spent so many unhappy days, and opening his own bag of furs he drew forth the better of the two silver foxes, and shaking the pelt well, as he had done in the tilt, held it up for admiration, and when all had marveled at its beauty strode over to the bed of the unconscious Jamie, and laid it upon the blanket.
“It’s for the little lad,” said he. “Tom, when I heard Uncle Ben tellin’ you not t’ trust me, and you said you’d promised me th’ trail, and a man’s word was a man’s word, I said t’ myself, th’ best skin I get this winter goes t’ th’ little lad that’s goin’ blind,’ and there it is. I didn’t tell th’ lads because I wanted t’ surprise ’em. I like t’ surprise folks. It makes me feel good, somehow, inside. I always tries t’ be honest, Tom. When I left th’ country before with my furs it was because I had word my mother was sick, and I had t’ have th’ furs t’ help her. She died last winter, and then I came back t’ th’ Bay t’ pay my debts.”
And so it came about that Indian Jake proved himself an honest man after all, and that every one had misjudged him because they did not understand his motives. So it is too often with all of us. We jump at conclusions, and misjudge people because we do not understand the circumstances that move them to do things of which we do not approve.
They must wait four weeks, Doctor Joe said, before the bandage could be removed from Jamie’s eyes, and before they could know whether he was ever to see again. Those were four anxious weeks indeed, but Jamie was patient and confident, and never was there a gentler nurse, or a better one either, Doctor Joe declared, than Margaret.
But at last, in the twilight of an evening, Thomas, Margaret, David and Andy gathered around Jamie, who was sitting in a chair almost too excited to control himself, and every one held his breath as Doctor Joe undid the fastenings of the bandage. For a moment Jamie sat winking and blinking, and then cried out in sheer glee:
“Oh, I sees! I sees you all! th’ mist is gone. I sees you all plain!”
The joy of that moment cannot be described, but perhaps we can imagine and feel it. The world that opened to Jamie after the long darkness was a more beautiful world than ever it had been before. His loved mountains had never seemed so big and brave as when he was permitted to look at them again, and he was quite sure that never before had the peaks, lighted by the setting sun, been so bright and glorious with heavenly beauty at the moment when God stooped down to kiss the world good night.
And so, after all, they had worried a great deal over troubles that never came true. But nevertheless it had required grit a-plenty to carry them bravely over the dark days when the mists hung low.
Printed in the United Stated of America