Returning afoot from the bedside of Long John Wise at Run-by-Guess—and from many a bedside and wretched hearth by the way—the doctor and I strapped our packs aback and heartily set out from the Hudson’s Bay Company’s post at Bread-and-Water Bay in the dawn of the day before Christmas: being then three weeks gone from our harbour, and, thinking to reach it next day. We were to chance hospitality for the night; and this must be (they told us) at the cottage of a man of the name of Jonas Jutt, which is at Topmast Tickle. There was a lusty old wind scampering down the coast, with many a sportive whirl and whoop, flinging the snow about in vast delight—a big, rollicking winter’s wind, blowing straight out of the north, at the pitch of half a gale. With this abeam we made brave progress; but yet ’twas late at night when we floundered down the gully called Long-an’-Deep, where the drifts were overhead and each must rescue the other from sudden misfortune: a warm glimmer of light in Jonas Jutt’s kitchen window to guide and hearten us.

The doctor beat the door with his fist. “Open, open!” cried he, still furiously knocking. “Good Lord! will you never open?”

So gruff was the voice, so big and commanding—and so sudden was the outcry—and so late was the night and wild the wind and far away the little cottage—that the three little Jutts, who then (as it turned out) sat expectant at the kitchen fire, must all at once have huddled close; and I fancy that Sammy blinked no longer at the crack in the stove, but slipped from his chair and limped to his sister, whose hand he clutched.

“We’ll freeze, I tell you!” shouted the doctor. “Open the—— Ha! Thank you,” in a mollified way, as Skipper Jonas opened the door; and then, most engagingly: “May we come in?”

“An’ welcome, zur,” said the hearty Jonas, “whoever you be! ’Tis gettin’ t’ be a wild night.”

“Thank you. Yes—a wild night. Glad to catch sight of your light from the top of the hill. We’ll leave the racquets here. Straight ahead? Thank you. I see the glow of a fire.”

We entered.

“Hello!” cried the doctor, stopping short. “What’s this? Kids? Good! Three of them. Ha! How are you?”

The manner of asking the question was most indignant, not to say threatening; and a gasp and heavy frown accompanied it. By this I knew that the doctor was about to make sport for Martha and Jimmie and Sammy Jutt (as their names turned out to be): which often he did for children by pretending to be in a great rage; and invariably they found it delicious entertainment, for however fiercely he blustered, his eyes twinkled most merrily all the time, so that one was irresistibly moved to chuckle with delight at the sight of them, no matter how suddenly or how terribly he drew down his brows.

“I like kids,” said he, with a smack of the lips. “I eat ’em!”

Gurgles of delight escaped from the little Jutts—and each turned to the other: the eyes of all dancing.

“And how are you?” the doctor demanded.

His fierce little glance was indubitably directed at little Sammy, as though, God save us! the lad had no right to be anything but well, and ought to be, and should be, birched on the instant if he had the temerity to admit the smallest ache or pain from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. But Sammy looked frankly into the flashing eyes, grinned, chuckled audibly, and lisped that he was better.

“Better?” growled the doctor, searching Sammy’s white face and skinny body as though for evidence to the contrary. “I’ll attend to you!”

Thereupon Skipper Jonas took us to the shed, where we laid off our packs and were brushed clean of snow; and by that time Matilda Jutt, the mother of Martha and Jimmie and Sammy, had spread the table with the best she had—little enough, God knows! being but bread and tea—and was smiling beyond. Presently there was nothing left of the bread and tea; and then we drew up to the fire, where the little Jutts still sat, regarding us with great interest. And I observed that Martha Jutt held a letter in her hand: whereupon I divined precisely what our arrival had interrupted, for I was Labrador born, and knew well enough what went on in the kitchens of our land of a Christmas Eve.

“And now, my girl,” said the doctor, “what’s what?”

By this extraordinary question—delivered, as it was, in a manner that called imperatively for an answer—Martha Jutt was quite nonplussed: as the doctor had intended she should be.

“What’s what?” repeated the doctor.

Quite startled, Martha lifted the letter from her lap. “He’s not comin’, zur,” she gasped, for lack of something better.

“You’re disappointed, I see,” said the doctor. “So he’s not coming?”

“No, zur—not this year.”

“That’s too bad. But you mustn’t mind it, you know—not for an instant. What’s the matter with him?”

“He’ve broke his leg, zur.”

“What!” cried the doctor, restored of a sudden to his natural manner. “Poor fellow! How did he come to do that?”

“Catchin’ one o’ they wild deer, zur.”

“Catching a deer!” the doctor exclaimed. “A most extraordinary thing. He was a fool to try it. How long ago?”

“Sure, it can’t be more than half an hour; for he’ve——”

The doctor jumped up. “Where is he?” he demanded, with professional eagerness. “It can’t be far. Davy, I must get to him at once. I must attend to that leg. Where is he?”

“Narth Pole, zur,” whispered Sammy.

“Oh-h-h!” cried the doctor; and he sat down again, and pursed his lips, and winked at Sammy in a way most peculiar. “I see!”

“Ay, zur,” Jimmie rattled, eagerly. “We’re fair disappointed that he’s not——”

“Ha!” the doctor interrupted. “I see. Hum! Well, now!” And having thus incoherently exclaimed for a little, the light in his eyes growing merrier all the time, he most unaccountably worked himself into a great rage: whereby I knew that the little Jutts were in some way to be mightily amused. “The lazy rascal!” he shouted, jumping out of his chair, and beginning to stamp the room, frowning terribly. “The fat, idle, blundering dunderhead! Did they send you that message? Did they, now? Tell me, did they? Give me that letter!” He snatched the letter from Martha’s lap. “Sammy,” he demanded, “where did this letter come from?”

“Narth Pole, zur!”

Jonas Jutt blushed—and Matilda threw her apron over her head to hide her confusion.

“And how did it come?”

“Out o’ the stove, zur.”

The doctor opened the letter, and paused to slap it angrily, from time to time, as he read it.

“Ha!” shouted the doctor, as he crushed the letter to a little ball and flung it under the table. “Ha! That’s the kind of thing that happens when one’s away from home. There you have it! Discipline gone to the dogs. System gone to the dogs. Everything gone to the dogs. Now, what do you think of that?”

He scowled, and gritted his teeth, and puffed, and said “Ha!” in a fashion so threatening that one must needs have fled the room had there not been a curiously reassuring twinkle in his eyes.

“What do you think of that?” he repeated, fiercely, at last. “A countermanded order! I’ll attend to him!” he burst out. “I’ll fix that fellow! The lazy dunderhead, I’ll soon fix him! Give me pen and ink. Where’s the paper? Never mind. I’ve some in my pack. One moment, and I’ll——”

He rushed to the shed, to the great surprise and alarm of the little Jutts, and loudly called back for a candle, which Skipper Jonas carried to him; and when he had been gone a long time, he returned with a letter in his hand, still ejaculating in a great rage.

“See that?” said he to the three little Jutts. “Well, that’s for Santa Claus’s clerk. That’ll fix him. That’ll blister the stupid fellow.”

“Please, zur!” whispered Martha Jutt.

“Well?” snapped the doctor, stopping short in a rush to the stove.

“Please, zur,” said Martha, taking courage, and laying a timid hand on his arm. “Sure, I don’t know what ’tis all about. I don’t know what blunder he’ve made. But I’m thinkin’, zur, you’ll be sorry if you acts in haste. ’Tis wise t’ count a hundred. Don’t be too hard on un, zur. ’Tis like the blunder may be mended. ’Tis like he’ll do better next time. Don’t be hard——”

“Hard on him?” the doctor interrupted. “Hard on him! Hard on that——”

“Ay, zur,” she pleaded, looking fearlessly up. “Won’t you count a hundred?”

“Count it,” said he, grimly.

Martha counted. I observed that the numbers fell slower—and yet more slowly—from her lips, until (and she was keenly on the watch) a gentler look overspread the doctor’s face; and then she rattled them off, as though she feared he might change his mind once more.

“——an’ a hundred!” she concluded, breathless.

“Well,” the doctor drawled, rubbing his nose, “I’ll modify it,” whereupon Martha smiled, “just to ’blige you,” whereupon she blushed.

So he scratched a deal of the letter out; then he sealed it, strode to the stove, opened the door, flung the letter into the flames, slammed the door, and turned with a wondrously sweet smile to the amazed little Jutts.

“There!” he sighed. “I think that will do the trick. We’ll soon know, at any rate.”

We waited, all very still, all with eyes wide open, all gazing fixedly at the door of the stove. Then, all at once—and in the very deepest of the silence—the doctor uttered a startling “Ha!” leaped from his chair with such violence that he overturned it, awkwardly upset Jimmie Jutt’s stool and sent the lad tumbling head over heels (for which he did not stop to apologize); and there was great confusion: in the midst of which the doctor jerked the stove door open, thrust in his arm, and snatched a blazing letter straight from the flames—all before Jimmie and Martha and Sammy Jutt had time to recover from the daze into which the sudden uproar had thrown them.

“There!” cried the doctor, when he had managed to extinguish the blaze. “We’ll just see what’s in this. Better news, I’ll warrant.”

You may be sure that the little Jutts were blinking amazement. There could be no doubt about the authenticity of that communication. And the doctor seemed to know it: for he calmly tore the envelope open, glanced the contents over, and turned to Martha, the broadest of grins wrinkling his face.

“Martha Jutt,” said he, “will you please be good enough to read that.”

And Martha read:

Then there was a great outburst of glee. It was the doctor who raised the first cheer. Three times three and a tiger! And what a tiger it was! What with the treble of Sammy, which was of the thinnest description, and the treble of Martha, which was full and sure, and the treble of Jimmie, which dangerously bordered on a cracked bass, and what with Matilda’s cackle and Skipper Jonas’s croak and my own hoorays and the doctor’s gutteral uproar (which might have been mistaken for a very double bass)—what with all this, as you may be sure, the shout of the wind was nowhere. Then we joined hands—it was the doctor who began it by catching Martha and Matilda—and danced the table round, shaking our feet and tossing our arms, the glee ever more uproarious—danced until we were breathless, every one, save little Sammy, who was not asked to join the gambol, but sat still in his chair, and seemed to expect no invitation.

“Wind blowing due south, strong and fresh,” gasped Jimmie, when, at last, we sat down. “He’ll be down in a hurry, with they swift deer. My! but he’ll just whizz in this gale!”

“But ’tis sad ’tis too late t’ get word to un,” said Martha, the smile gone from her face.

“Sad, is it?” cried the doctor. “Sad! What’s the word you want to send?”

“’Tis something for Sammy, zur.”

Sammy gave Martha a quick dig in the ribs. “‘N’ mama,” he lisped, reproachfully.

“Ay, zur; we’re wantin’ it bad. An’ does you think us could get word to un? For Sammy, zur?”

“‘N’ mama,” Sammy insisted.

“We can try, at any rate,” the doctor answered, doubtfully. “Maybe we can catch him on the way down. Where’s that pen? Here we are. Now!”

He scribbled rapidly, folded the letter in great haste, and dispatched it to Santa Claus’s clerk by the simple process of throwing it in the fire. As before, he went to his pack in the shed, taking the candle with him—the errand appeared to be really most trivial—and stayed so long that the little Jutts, who now loved him very much (as I could see), wished that the need would not arise again. But, all in good time, he returned, and sat to watch for the reply, intent as any of them; and, presently, he snatched the stove door open, creating great confusion in the act, as before; and before the little Jutts could recover from the sudden surprise, he held up a smoking letter. Then he read aloud:

“Try Hamilton Inlet. Touches there 10:48. Time of arrival at Topmast Tickle uncertain. No use waiting up.Snow, Clerk.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed the doctor. “That’s jolly! Touches Hamilton Inlet at 10:48.” He consulted his watch. “It’s now 10:43 and a half. We’ve just four and a half minutes. I’ll get a message off at once. Where’s that confounded pen? Ha! Here we are. Now—what is it you want for Sammy and mama?”

The three little Jutts were suddenly thrown into a fearful state of excitement. They tried to talk all at once; but not one of them could frame a coherent sentence. It was most distressful to see.

“The Exterminator!” Martha managed to jerk out, at last.

“Oh, ay!” cried Jimmie Jutt. “Quick, zur! Write un down. Pine’s Prompt Pain Exterminator. Warranted to cure. Please, zur, make haste.”

The doctor stared at Jimmie.

“Oh, zur,” groaned Martha, “don’t be starin’ like that! Write, zur! ’Twas all in the paper the prospector left last summer. Pine’s Prompt Pain Exterminator. Cures boils, rheumatism, pains in the back an’ chest, sore throat, an’ all they things, an’ warts on the hands by a simple application with brown paper. We wants it for the rheumatiz, zur. Oh, zur——”

“None genuine without the label,” Jimmie put in, in an excited rattle. “Money refunded if no cure. Get a bottle with the label.”

The doctor laughed—laughed aloud, and laughed again. “By Jove!” he roared, “you’ll get it. It’s odd, but—ha, ha!—by Jove, he has it in stock!”

The laughter and repeated assurance seemed vastly to encourage Jimmie and Martha—the doctor wrote like mad while he talked—but not little Sammy. All that he lisped, all that he shouted, all that he screamed, had gone unheeded. As though unable to put up with the neglect any longer, he limped over the floor to Martha, and tugged her sleeve, and pulled at Jimmie’s coat-tail, and jogged the doctor’s arm, until, at last, he attracted a measure of attention. Notwithstanding his mother’s protests—notwithstanding her giggles and waving hands—notwithstanding that she blushed as red as ink (until, as I perceived, her freckles were all lost to sight)—notwithstanding that she threw her apron over her head and rushed headlong from the room, to the imminent danger of the door-posts—little Sammy insisted that his mother’s gift should be named in the letter of request.

“Quick!” cried the doctor. “What is it? We’ve but half a minute left.”

Sammy began to stutter.

“Make haste, b’y!” cried Jimmie.

“One—bottle—of—the—Magic—Egyptian—Beautifier,” said Sammy, quite distinctly for the first time in his life.

The doctor looked blank; but he doggedly nodded his head, nevertheless, and wrote it down; and off went the letter at precisely 10:47.45, as the doctor said.

Later—when the excitement had all subsided and we sat dreaming in the warmth and glow—the doctor took little Sammy in his lap, and told him he was a very good boy, and looked deep in his eyes, and stroked his hair, and, at last, very tenderly bared his knee. Sammy flinched at that; and he said “Ouch!” once, and screwed up his face, when the doctor—his gruffness all gone, his eyes gentle and sad, his hand as light as a mother’s—worked the joint, and felt the knee-cap and socket with the tips of his fingers.

“And is this the rheumatiz the Prompt Exterminator is to cure, Sammy?” he asked.

“Ith, zur.”

“Ah, is that where it hurts you? Right on the point of the bone, there?”

“Ith, zur.”

“And was there no fall on the rock, at all? Oh, there was a fall? And the bruise was just there—where it hurts so much? And it’s very hard to bear, isn’t it?”

Sammy shook his head.

“No? But it hurts a good deal, sometimes, does it not? That’s too bad. That’s very sad, indeed. But, perhaps—perhaps, Sammy—I can cure it for you, if you are brave. And are you brave? No? Oh, I think you are. And you’ll try to be, at any rate, won’t you? Of course! That’s a good boy.”

And so, with his sharp little knives, the doctor cured Sammy Jutt’s knee, while the lad lay white and still on the kitchen table. And ’twas not hard to do; but had not the doctor chanced that way, Sammy Jutt would have been a cripple all his life.

“Doctor, zur,” said Matilda Jutt, when the children were put to bed, with Martha to watch by Sammy, who was still very sick, “is you really got a bottle o’ Pine’s Prompt?”

The doctor laughed. “An empty bottle,” said he. “I picked it up at Poverty Cove. Thought it might come useful. I’ll put Sammy’s medicine in that. They’ll not know the difference. And you’ll treat the knee with it as I’ve told you. That’s all. We must turn in at once; for we must be gone before the children wake in the morning.”

“Oh, ay, zur; an’——” she began: but hesitated, much embarrassed.

“Well?” the doctor asked, with a smile.

“Would you mind puttin’ some queer lookin’ stuff in one o’ they bottles o’ yours?”

“Not in the least,” in surprise.

“An’ writin’ something on a bit o’ paper,” she went on, pulling at her apron, and looking down, “an’ gluin’ it t’ the bottle?”

“Not at all. But what shall I write?”

She flushed. “‘Magic Egyptian Beautifier,’ zur,” she answered; “for I’m thinkin’ ’twould please little Sammy t’ think that Sandy Claws left something—for me—too.”

If you think that the three little Jutts found nothing but bottles of medicine in their stockings, when they got down-stairs on Christmas morning, you are very much mistaken. Indeed, there was much more than that—a great deal more than that. I will not tell you what it was; for you might sniff, and say, “Huh! That’s little enough!” But there was more than medicine. No man—rich man, poor man, beggarman nor thief, doctor, lawyer nor merchant chief—ever yet left a Hudson’s Bay Company’s post, stared in the face by the chance of having to seek hospitality of a Christmas Eve—no right-feeling man, I say, ever yet left a Hudson’s Bay Company’s post, under such circumstances, without putting something more than medicine in his pack. I chance to know, at any rate, that upon this occasion Doctor Luke did not. And I know, too—you may be interested to learn it—that as we floundered through the deep snow, homeward bound, soon after dawn, the next day, he was glad enough that he hadn’t. No merry shouts came over the white miles from the cottage of Jonas Jutt, though I am sure that they rang there most heartily; but the doctor did not care: he shouted merrily enough for himself, for he was very happy. And that’s the way you’d feel, too, if you spent your days hunting good deeds to do.