In the dead of winter, great storms of wind and snow raged for days together, so that it was unsafe to venture ten fathoms from the door, and the glass fell to fifty degrees (and more) below zero, where the liquid behaved in a fashion so sluggish that ’twould not have surprised us had it withdrawn into the bulb altogether, never to reappear in a sphere of agreeable activity. By night and day we kept the fires roaring (my father and Skipper Tommy standing watch and watch in the night) and might have gone at ease, cold as it was, had we not been haunted by the fear that a conflagration, despite our watchfulness, would of a sudden put us at the mercy of the weather, which would have made an end of us, every one, in a night. But when the skipper had wrought us into a cheerful mood, the wild, white days sped swift enough—so fast, indeed, that it was quite beyond me to keep count of them: for he was marvellous at devising adventures out-of-doors and pastimes within. At length, however, he said that he must be off to the Lodge, else Jacky and Timmie, the twins, who had been left to fend for themselves, would expire of longing for his return.

“An’ I’ll be takin’ Davy back with me, mum,” said he to my mother, not daring, however, to meet her eye to eye with the proposal, “for the twins is wantin’ him sore.”

“Davy!” cried my mother. “Surely, Skipper Tommy, you’re not thinking to have Davy back with you!”

Skipper Tommy ventured to maintain that I would be the better of a run in the woods, which would (as he ingeniously intimated) restore the blood to my cheeks: whereupon my mother came at once to his way of thinking, and would hear of no delay, but said—and that in a fever of anxiety—that I must be off in the morning, for she would not rest until I was put in the way of having healthful sport with lads of my age. So, that night, my sister made up three weeks’ rations for me from our store (with something extra in the way of tinned beef and a pot of jam as a gift from me to the twins); also, she mended my sleeping-bag, in which my sprouting legs had kicked a hole, and got out the big black wolfskin, for bed covering in case of need. And by the first light of the next day we loaded the komatik, harnessed the joyful dogs and set out with a rush, the skipper’s long whip cracking a jolly farewell as we went swinging over the frozen harbour to the Arm.

“Hi, hi, b’y!” the skipper shouted to the dogs.

Crack! went the whip, high over the heads of the pack. The dogs yelped. “Hi, hi!” screamed I. And on we sped, raising a dust of crisp snow in our wake. It was a famous pack. Fox, the new leader, was a mighty, indomitable fellow, and old Wolf, in the rear, had a sharp eye for lagging heels, which he snapped, in a flash, whenever a trace was let slack. What with Fox and Wolf and the skipper’s long whip and my cries of encouragement there was no let up. On we went, coursing over the level stretches, bumping over rough places, swerving ’round the turns. It was a glorious ride. The day was clear, the air frosty, the pace exhilarating. The blood tingled in every part of me. I was sorry when we rounded Pipestem Point, and the huddled tilts of the Lodge, half buried in snow, came into view. But, half an hour later, in Skipper Tommy’s tilt, I was glad that the distance had been no greater, for then the twins were helping me thaw out my cheeks and the tip of my nose, which had been frozen on the way.

That night the twins and I slept together in the cock-loft like a litter of puppies.

“Beef!” sighed Jacky, the last thing before falling asleep. “Think o’ that, Timmie!”

“An’ jam!” said Timmie.

They gave me a nudge to waken me. “Thanks, Davy,” said they both.

Then I fell asleep.

Our folk slept a great deal at the Lodge. They seemed to want to have the winter pass without knowing more than they could help of the various pangs of it—like the bears. But, when the weather permitted them to stir without, they trapped for fox and lynx, and hunted (to small purpose) with antiquated guns, and cut wood, if they were in the humour; and whatever necessity compelled them to do, and whatever they had to eat (since there was at least enough of it), they managed to have a rollicking time of it, as you would not suppose, without being told. The tilts were built of slim logs, caulked with moss; and there was but one room—and that a bare one—with bunks at one end for the women and a cock-loft above for the men. The stove was kept at red heat, day and night, but, notwithstanding, there was half an inch of frost on the walls and great icicles under the bunks: extremes of temperature were thus to be found within a very narrow compass. In the evening, when we were all gathered close about the stove, we passed the jolliest hours; for it was then that the folk came in, and tales were told, and (what was even more to our taste) the “spurts at religion” occurred.

When the argument concerned the pains of hell, Mary, Tom Tot’s daughter, who was already bound out to service to the new manager of the store at Wayfarer’s Tickle (expected by the first mail-boat), would slip softly in to listen.

“What you thinkin’ about?” I whispered, once.

She sat remote from the company, biting her finger nails, staring, meanwhile, from speaker to speaker, with eyes that were pitifully eager.

“Hell,” she answered.

I was taken aback by that. “Hell, Mary?” I exclaimed.

“Ay, Davy,” she said, with a shudder, “I’m thinkin’ about hell.”

“What for?” said I. “Sure, ’twill do you no good to think about hell.”

“I got to,” said she. “I’m goin’ there!”

Skipper Tommy explained, when the folk had gone, that Mary, being once in a south port of our coast, had chanced to hear a travelling parson preach a sermon. “An’,” said he, “’tis too bad that young man preached about damnation, for ’tis the only sermon she ever heared, an’ she isn’t seemin’ t’ get over it.” After that I tried to persuade Mary that she would not go to hell, but quite dismally failed—and not only failed, but was soon thinking that I, too, was bound that way. When I expressed this fear, Mary took a great fancy to me, and set me to getting from Skipper Tommy a description of the particular tortures, as he conceived they were to be inflicted; for, said she, he was a holy man, and could tell what she so much wished to know. Skipper Tommy took me on his knee, and spoke long and tenderly to me, so that I have never since feared death or hell; but his words, being repeated, had no effect upon Mary, who continued still to believe that the unhappy fate awaited her, because of some sin she was predestined to commit, or, if not that, because of her weight of original sin.

“Oh, Davy, I got t’ go!” she moaned, tearing one of her nails to the quick.

“No, no!” I cried. “The Lard ’ll never be so mean t’ you.”

“You don’t know Him,” she said, mysteriously. “You don’t know what He’s up to.”

“Bother Him!” I exclaimed, angered that mortals should thus be made miserable by interference. “I wisht He’d leave us be!”

“Hush!” she said, horrified.

“What’s He gone an’ done, now?” I demanded.

“He’ve not elected me,” she whispered, solemnly. “He’ve left me with the goats.”

And so, happily, I accumulated another grudge against this misconception of the dear Lord, which Skipper Tommy’s sweet philosophy and the jolly companionship of the twins could not eliminate for many days. But eventually the fresh air and laughter and tenderness restored my complacency. I forgot all about hell; ’twas more interesting to don my racquets and make the round of the fox traps with the twins, or to play pranks on the neighbours, or to fashion curious masques and go mummering from tilt to tilt. In the end, I emerged from the unfortunate mood with one firm conviction, founded largely, I fear, upon a picture which hung by my bed at home: that portraying a rising from the dead, the grave below, a golden, cloudy heaven above, wherefrom a winged angel had descended to take the hand of the free, enraptured soul. And my conviction was this, that, come what might to the souls of the wicked, the souls of the good were upon death robed in white and borne aloft to some great bliss, yet lingered, by the way, to throw back a tender glance.

I had never seen death come.

In three weeks my rations were exhausted, and, since it would have been ungenerous in me to consume Skipper Tommy’s food, I had the old man harness the dogs and take me home. My only regret was that my food did not last until Skipper Tommy had managed to make Tom Tot laugh. Many a night the old man had tried to no purpose, for Tom Tot would stare him stolidly in the eye, however preposterous the tale to be told. The twins and I had waited in vain—ready to explode at the right moment: but never having the opportunity. The last assault on Tom Tot’s composure had been disastrous to the skipper. When, with highly elaborate detail, he had once more described his plan for training whales, disclosing, at last, his intention of having a wheel-house on what he called the forward deck——

“What about the fo’c’s’le?” Tom Tot solemnly asked.

“Eh?” gasped the skipper. “Fo‘c’s’le?”

“Ay,” said Tom Tot, in a melancholy drawl. “Isn’t you give a thought t’ the crew?”

Skipper Tommy was nonplussed.

“Well,” sighed Tom, “I s’pose you’ll be havin’ t’ fit up Jonah’s quarters for them poor men!”

At home, in the evening, while my mother and father and sister and I were together in the glow of the fire, we delighted to plan the entertainment of the doctor who was coming to cure my mother. He must have the armchair from the best room below, my mother said, that he might sit in comfort, as all doctors should, while he felt her pulse; he must have a refreshing nip from the famous bottle of Jamaica rum, which had lain in untroubled seclusion since before I was born, waiting some occasion of vast importance; and he must surely not take her unaware in a slatternly moment, but must find her lying on the pillows, wearing her prettiest nightgown, which was thereupon newly washed and ironed and stowed away in the bottom drawer of the bureau against his unexpected coming. But while the snow melted from the hills, and the folk returned to the coast for the seal fishing, and the west winds carried the ice to sea, and we waited day by day for the mail-boat, our spirits fell, for my mother was then fast failing. And I discovered this strange circumstance: that while her strength withered, her hope grew large, and she loved to dwell upon the things she would do when the doctor had made her well; and I wondered why that was, but puzzled to no purpose.