Despite Skipper Billy’s anxious, laughing protest that ’twas not yet fit weather to be at sea, the doctor next day ordered the sail set: for, as he said, he was all of a maddening itch to be about certain business, of a professional and official turn, at our harbour and Wayfarer’s Tickle, and could no longer wait the pleasure of a damned obstinate nor’east gale—a shocking way to put it, indeed, but vastly amusing when uttered with a fleeting twinkle of the eye: vastly convincing, too, followed by a snap of the teeth and the gleam of some high, heroic purpose. So we managed to get the able little Greased Lightning into the thick of it—merrily into the howl and gray frown of that ill-minded sea—and, though wind and sea, taking themselves seriously, conspired to smother her, we made jolly reaches to the nor’ard, albeit under double reefs, and came that night to Poor Luck Harbour, where the doctor’s sloop was waiting. There we bade good-bye to the mood-stricken Docks, and a short farewell to Skipper Billy, who must return into the service of the Government doctors from St. Johns, now, at last, active in the smallpox ports. And next morning, the wind having somewhat abated in the night, the doctor and I set sail for our harbour, where, two days later, with the gale promising to renew itself, we dropped anchor: my dear sister, who had kept watch from her window, now waiting on my father’s wharf.

It seemed to me then—and with utmost conviction I uttered the feeling abroad, the while perceiving no public amusement—that the powers of doctors were fair witchlike: for no sooner had my sweet sister swallowed the first draught our doctor mixed—nay, no sooner had it been offered her in the silver spoon, and by the doctor, himself—than her soft cheek turned the red of health, and her dimples, which of late had been expressionless, invited kisses in a fashion the most compelling, so that a man of mere human parts would swiftly take them, though he were next moment hanged for it. I marvel, indeed, that Doctor Luke could resist them; but resist he did: as I know, for, what with lurking and peeping (my heart being anxiously enlisted), I took pains to discover the fact, and was in no slight degree distressed by it. For dimples were made for kissing—else for what?—and should never go unsatisfied; they are so frank in pleading that ’twould be sheer outrage for the lips of men to feel no mad desire: which, thank God! seldom happens. But, then, what concern have I, in these days, with the identical follies of dimples and kissing?

“’Tis a wonderful clever doctor,” said I to my sister, my glance fixed in amazement on her glowing cheeks, “that we got in Doctor Luke.”

“Ah, yes!” she sighed: but so demure that ’twas not painful to hear it.

“An’, ecod!” I declared, “’tis a wonderful clever medicine that he’ve been givin’ you.”

“Ecod! Davy Roth,” she mocked, a sad little laugh in her eyes, “an’ how,” said she, “did you manage to find it out?”

“Bessie!” cried I, in horror. “Do you stop that swearin’! For an you don’t,” I threatened, “I’ll give you——”

“Hut!” she flouted. “’Tis your own word.”

“Then,” I retorted, “I’ll never say it again. Ecod! but I won’t.”

She pinched my cheek.

“An’ I’m wonderin’,” I sighed, reverting to the original train of thought, which was ever a bothersome puzzle, “how he can keep from kissin’ you when he puts the spoon in your mouth. Sure,” said I, “he’ve such a wonderful good chance t’ do it!”

It may have been what I said; it may have been a familiar footfall in the hall: at any rate, my sister fled in great confusion. And, pursuing heartily, I caught her in her room before she closed the door, but retreated in haste, for she was already crying on the bed. Whereupon, I gave up the puzzle of love, once and for all; and, as I sought the windy day, I was established in the determination by a glimpse of the doctor, sitting vacant as an imbecile in the room where my sister and I had been: whom I left to his own tragedy, myself being wearied out of patience by it.

“The maid that turns me mad,” was my benighted reflection, as I climbed the Watchman to take a look at the weather, “will be a wonderful clever hand.”

Unhappily, there had been no indictable offense in Jagger’s connection with the horrid crimes of the Sink or Swim (as the doctor said with a wry face): for Docks would be but a poor witness in a court of law at St. Johns’ knowing nothing of his own knowledge, but only by hearsay; and the bones of Skipper Jim already lay stripped and white in the waters of the Harbourless Shore. But, meantime, the doctor kept watch for opportunity to send frank warning to the man of Wayfarer’s Tickle; and, soon, chance offered by way of the schooner Bound Down, Skipper Immerly Swat, whom the doctor charged, with a grim little grin, to inform the evil fellow that he was to be put in jail, out of hand, when first he failed to walk warily: a message to which Jagger returned (by the skipper of the Never Say Die) an answer of the sauciest—so saucy, indeed, that the doctor did not repeat it, but flushed and kept silent. And now the coast knew of the open war; and great tales came to us of Jagger’s laughter and loose-mouthed boasting—of his hate and ridicule and defiant cursing: so that the doctor wisely conceived him to be upon the verge of some cowardly panic. But the doctor went about his usual work, healing the sick, quietly keeping the helm of our business, as though nothing had occurred: and grimly waited for the inevitable hour.

Jonas Jutt, of Topmast Tickle, with whom we had passed a Christmas Eve—the father of Martha and Jimmie and Sammy Jutt—came by stealth to our harbour to speak a word with the doctor. “Doctor Luke,” said he, between his teeth, “I’m this year in service t’ Jagger o’ Wayfarer’s Tickle; an’ I’ve heared tell o’ the quarrel atween you; an’....”

“Yes?” the doctor inquired.

“I’ve took sides.”

“I rather think,” the doctor observed, “that you can tell me something I very much want to know.”

“I’ve no wish, God knows!” Jonas continued, with deep feeling, “t’ betray my master. But you—you, zur—cured my child, an’ I’m wantin’ t’ do you a service.”

“I think you can.”

“I knows I can! I know—I knows—that which will put Jagger t’ makin’ brooms in the jail t’ St. Johns.”

“Ah!” the doctor drawled. “I wish,” said he, “that I knew that.”

“I knows,” Jonas pursued, doggedly, though it went against the grain, “that last week he wrecked the Jessie Dodd on the Ragged Edge at Wayfarer’s Tickle. I knows that she was insured for her value and fifteen hundred quintal o’ Labrador fish. I knows that they wasn’t a fish aboard. I knows that every fish is safe stowed in Jagger’s stores. I knows that the schooner lies near afloat at high tide. I knows that she’ll go t’ pieces in the winter gales. I knows——”

The doctor lifted his hand. He was broadly smiling. “You have told me,” said he, “quite enough. Go back to Wayfarer’s Tickle. Leave me,” he added, “to see that Jagger learns the worthy trade of broom-making. You have done me—great service.”

“Ah, but,” cried Jonas, gripping the doctor’s hand, “you cured my little Sammy!”

The doctor mused. “It may be difficult,” he said, by and by, “to fix this wreck upon Jagger.”

“Hist!” Jonas replied, stepping near. “The skipper o’ the Jessie Dodd,” he whispered, pointedly, solemnly closing one eye, “is wonderful weak in the knees.”

Doctor and I went then in the sloop to Wayfarer’s Tickle (the wind favouring us); and there we found the handsome Jessie Dodd lying bedraggled and disconsolate on the Ragged Edge, within the harbour: slightly listed, but afloat aft, and swinging with the gentle lift and fall of the water. We boarded her, sad at heart that a craft so lovely should come to a pass like this; and ’twas at once plain to us sailor-men that ’twas a case of ugly abandonment, if not of barratry—plain, indeed, to such as knew the man, that in conspiracy with the skipper Jagger had caused the wreck of the schooner, counting upon the isolation of the place, the lateness of the season, the simplicity of the folk, the awe in which they held him—upon all this to conceal the crime: as often happens on our far-off coast. So we took the skipper into custody (and this with a high hand) unknown to Jagger—got him, soon, safe into the sloop: so cowed and undone by the doctor’s manner that he miserably whined for chance to turn Queen’s evidence in our behalf. ’Twas very sad—nauseating, too: so that one wished to stop the white, writhing lips with a hearty buffet; for rascals should be strong, lest their pitiful complaints distress the hearts of honest men, who have not deserved the cruel punishment.

Jagger came waddling down to the landing, his great dog at his heels. “What you doin’,” he demanded, scowling like a thunder-storm, “with that man?”

“I next call your attention,” the doctor answered, with a smile of the most engaging sort, like a showman once I saw in the South, “to the most be-witching exhibit in this vast concourse of wonders. We have here—don’t crowd, if you please—we have here the skipper of the schooner Jessie Dodd, cast away on the Ragged Edge at Wayfarer’s Tickle. He is—and I direct your particular attention to the astounding fact—under arrest; being taken by a magistrate duly appointed by the authorities at St Johns. Observe, if you will, his—ah—rather abject condition. Mark his penitent air. Conceive, if you can, the—ah—ardour with which he will betray——”

Jagger turned on his heel—and went wearily away. And I have never forgiven the doctor his light manner upon this wretched occasion: for it seems to me (but I am not sure of it) that rascals, also, are entitled to the usual courtesy. At any rate, in uttermost despair we paid for the lack of it.

I copy, now, from the deposition of Allworthy Grubb, master of the schooner Jessie Dodd, Falmouth, England, as taken that night at our harbour: “The ‘Jessie Dodd’ was chartered by Thomas Jagger, doing business at Wayfarer’s Tickle, to load fish for across.... I do hereby make a voluntary statement, with my own free will, and without any inducement whatever.... Thomas Jagger offered me, if I would put the ‘Jessie Dodd’ ashore, he would give me half the profits realized on ship and cargo. This he promised me on a Sunday morning in his fish stage opposite to where the ship was put ashore. After the ship was put ashore he no longer discussed about the money I was to receive.... Two days before the ‘Jessie Dodd’ was put ashore I broke the wheel chain and tied the links with spunyarn. I showed the broken links to Mr. Jagger. The day we were starting there was rum served out to the crew. Mr. Jagger supplied it. When the vessel started, nearly all the crew were drunk. I had the wheel. About five minutes after she started I cut the spunyarn. The vessel began to go on the rocks. One of the crew shouted, ‘Hard-a-starboard!’ I shouted that the port wheel chain was broken. Then the vessel went ashore.... Mr. Jagger sent a kettle of rum aboard, which I had served to the crew. No attempt was made to get the vessel off.... When I saw Mr. Jagger he told me I was a seven kinds of a fool for putting her ashore where I did. He said it would be all right, anyhow. He said they were all afraid of him. He said no one would give it away.... I am guilty of putting the ‘Jessie Dodd’ ashore, for which I am extremely sorry of being prompted to do so by Thomas Jagger, and to be so sadly led away into such depravity. Had it not been for such an irreproachable character, which I have held previous to this dreadful act, ten minutes after the occurrence I would have given myself up. Not one hour since but what I have repented bitterly....” I present this that the doctor may not appear unfairly to have initiated a prosecution against his enemy: though that were a blessing to our coast.

“Davy,” said the doctor, briskily, when the writing was done, “I must leave Captain Grubb to your hospitality for a time. It will be necessary for me to go south to the cable station at Chateau. The support of Lloyds—since Jagger has influence at St. Johns—will be invaluable in this case.”

He set sail in the sloop next day.

It was now late in the fall of the year. Young slob ice was forming by night in the quiet places of the harbour. The shiver of winter was everywhere abroad.... For a week the weather continued ominous—with never a glint of sunshine to gladden us. Drear weather, treacherous—promising grief and pain. Off shore, the schooners of the great fleet crept by day to the s‘uth’ard, harbouring by night: taking quick advantage of the variable winds, as chance offered. ’Twas thus that the doctor returned to our harbour; and there he was held, from day to day, by vicious winds, which the little sloop could not carry, by great, black seas, which she could not ride.... One day, being ill at ease, we went to the Watchman, that we might descry the first favourable sign. In the open, the wind was still to the north of east—but wildly capricious: blowing hither and thither; falling, too, to a sigh, rising, all at once, to a roaring gust, which tore at the whisps of grass and fairly sucked the breath from one’s body. Overhead, the sky was low and tumultuous; great banks of black cloud, flecked with gray and white—ragged masses—went flying inland, as in a panic. There was no quiet light in the east, no clean air between; ’twas everywhere thick—everywhere sullen.... We left the Watchman downcast—each, too, preoccupied. In my heart was the heavy feeling that some sad thing was about to befall us....

I must tell, now, that, before the smallpox came to Poor Luck Harbour, the doctor had chartered the thirty-ton Trap and Seine for our business: with which Skipper Tommy Lovejoy and the twins, with four men of our harbour, had subsequently gone north to Kidalik, where the fishing was reported good beyond dreams. ’Twas time for the schooner to be home. She was long overdue; and in great anxiety we awaited her return or news of her misfortune: the like of which often happens on our coast, where news proceeds only by word of mouth. ’Twas in part in hope of catching sight of her barked topsail that we had gone to the Watchman. But at that moment the Trap and Seine lay snug at anchor in Wayfarer’s Tickle: there delayed for more civil weather in which to attempt the passage of the Bay, for she was low in the water with her weight of fish, and Skipper Tommy had a mind to preserve his good fortune against misadventure. And, next day, the wind being still unfavourable, he had Timmie row him ashore, that he might pass an hour in talk with the men on Jagger’s wharf: for there was nothing better to do, and the wreck of the Jessie Dodd was food of the choicest for water-side gossip. To him, by and by, came Jagger’s clerk: begging that the Trap and Seine might be got under weigh for our harbour within the hour, for Jagger lay near death (having been taken in the night) and sorely needed the doctor, lest he die.

“Die!” cried Skipper Tommy, much distressed. “That’s fair awful. Poor man! So sick as that?”

“Ay,” the clerk replied, with a sharp little look into Skipper Tommy’s mild eyes, “he’ll die.”

“Ecod!” the skipper declared. “’Twill make the doctor sad t’ know it!”

Skipper Tommy remembers that the clerk turned away, as if, for some strange reason, to get command of himself.

“That he will,” said the clerk.

“’Tis awful!” the skipper repeated. “I’ll get the schooner t’ sea this minute. She’s wonderful low in the water,” he mused, pulling at his nose; “but I’m thinkin’ the doctor would rather save a life than get a cargo o’ green fish t’ harbour.”

“Dying, tell him,” the clerk urged, smoothing his mouth with a lean hand. “Dying—and in terror of hell.”

“Afeared o’ hell?”

“Gone mad with fear of damnation.”

Skipper Tommy raised his hands. “That’s awful!” he muttered, with a sad shake of the head. “Tell that poor man the doctor will come. Tell un, oh, tell un,” he added, wringing his hands, “not t’ be afeared o’ hell!”

“Yes, yes!” the clerk exclaimed, impatiently. “Don’t forget the message. Jagger lies sick, and dying, and begging for help.”

Skipper Tommy made haste to the small boat, the while raising a cry for Timmie, who had gone about his own pleasure, the Lord knew where! And Timmie ran down the path, as fast as his sea-boots would go: but was intercepted by Jonas Jutt, who drew him into the lower fish-stage, as though in fear of observation, and there whispered the circumstances of the departure of the Trap and Seine.

“But do you tell your father,” he went on, “that Jagger’s not sick.”

“Not sick?” cried Timmie, under his breath.

“Tell your father that I heared Jagger say he’d prove the doctor a coward or drown him.”

Timmie laughed.

“Tell un,” Jonas whispered, speaking in haste and great excitement, “that Jagger’s as hearty drunk as ever he was—loaded t’ the gunwale with rum an’ hate—in dread o’ the trade o’ broom-makin’—desperate t’ get clear o’ the business o’ the Jessie Dodd. Tell un he wants t’ drown the doctor atween your harbour an’ Wayfarer’s Tickle. Tell un t’ give no heed t’ the message. Tell un t’——”

“Oh, Lard!” Timmie gurgled, in a spasm of delight.

“Tell un t’ have the doctor stay at home ’til the weather lifts. Tell un——”

In response to an urgent call from the skipper, who was waiting at the small-boat, Timmie ran out. As he stumbled down the path, emitting guffaws and delicious chuckles, he conceived—most unhappily for us all—an infinitely humorous plan, which would still give him the delight of a rough passage to our harbour: for Timmie loved a wet deck and a reeling beat to windward, under a low, driving sky, with the night coming down, as few lads do. Inform the skipper? Not Timmie! Nor would he tell even Jacky. He would disclose the plot at a more dramatic moment. When the beat was over—when the schooner had made harbour—when the anchor was down—when the message was delivered—in the thick of the outcry of protest against the doctor’s high determination to venture upon the errand of mercy—then Timmie Lovejoy, the dramatic opportunity having come, would, with proper regard for his own importance, make the astounding revelation. It would be quite thrilling (he thought); moreover, it would be a masterly joke on his father, who took vast delight in such things.

“The wind’s veerin’ t’ the s‘uth’ard,” said the skipper, anxiously, while they put a double reef in the mainsail. “’Twill be a rough time across.”

“Hut! dad,” Timmie answered. “Sure, you can make harbour.”

“Ecod!” Jacky added, with a grin. “You’re the man t’ do it, dad—you’re the man t’ drive her!”

“Well, lads,” the flattered skipper admitted, resting from the wrestle with the obstinate sail, and giving his nose a pleased sort of tweak, “I isn’t sayin’ I’m not.”

So, low as she was—sunk with the load in her hold and the gear and casks and what-not on her deck—they took the Trap and Seine into the gale. And she made brave weather of it—holding her own stoutly, cheerily shaking the frothy water from her bows: though ’twas an unfair task to put her to. Skipper Tommy put the first hand at the mainsail halliards, the second hand at the foresail, with orders to cut away at the lift of his hand, lest the vessel get on her beam’s ends and capsize. ’Twas thus that they drove her into the wind—stout hearts and stout timber: no wavering or weak complaint, whatever the wind and sea. But night caught them off our harbour—deep night: with the headlands near lost in the black sky; no more than the looming, changing shadow of the hills and the intermittent flash of breakers to guide the way. They were now beating along shore, close to Long Cove of the mainland, which must then have lain placid in the lee of Naked Point. At the cry of “Hard-a-lee!”—sung out in terror when the breakers were fair under the bow—the ship came about and fell off towards the open sea. Then came three great waves; they broke over the bow—swept the schooner, stem to stern, the deck litter going off in a rush of white water. The first wrenched Jacky from his handhold; but Skipper Tommy, standing astern, caught him by the collar as the lad went over the taffrail. Came, then, with the second wave, Timmie, whom, also, the skipper caught. But ’twas beyond the old man’s power to lift both to the deck: nor could he cry for help, nor choose whom to drop, loving them alike; but desperately clung to both until the rush of the third wave tore one away.

It was Timmie.

Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, making into our harbour, by way of the Gate, in the depths of that wild night—poor old Skipper Tommy, blind and broken by grief—ran his loaded schooner into the Trap and wrecked her on the Seven Murderers, where she went to pieces on the unfeeling rocks. But we managed to get the crew ashore, and no man lost his life at that time. And Skipper Tommy, sitting bowed in my father’s house, told us in a dull, slow way—made tragic, from time to time, by the sweet light in his eye, by the flitting shadow of a smile—told us, thus, that Jagger of Wayfarer’s Tickle lay at the point of death, in fear of hell, crying for the help of his enemy: and then put his arm about Jacky, and went with him to the Rat Hole, there to bury his sorrow, that it might not distress us the more, who sorrowed, also.