Part 13

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.

XXIV

UNCLE BEN APPEARS

“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, _what_ever,” 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 _wonder_ful 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.

XXV

“TROUBLES THAT NEVER CAME TRUE”

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, _what_ever. 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.