Billy Topsail, M.D.

"No," said he, "I come over from Point o' Bay."

"Up from Laughter Bight, Bob?"

"All the way."

"Any word o' Doctor Luke down north?"

"Ay; he's down north somewheres."

"Whereabouts, Bob?"

"I heard of un at Trap Harbour."

"Trap Harbour! Was he workin' north, Bob?"

"There was sickness at Huddle Cove."

"At Huddle Cove? My, my! 'Tis below Cape Blind. He'll not be this way in a fortnight. Oh, dear me!"

By this time His Majesty's Mail was stamping his feet and brooming the snow from his seal-hide boots. In answer to his violence the kitchen door fell ajar. And Bob Likely cocked his ear. Queer sounds – singular scraps of declaration and pleading – issued to the wood-shed.

There was the tap-tap of a wooden leg. Bob Likely identified the presence and agitated pacing of the maternal grandfather of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island. And there was a whimper and a sob. It was the Little Fiddler.

A woman crooned:

"Hush, dear – ah, hush, now!"

A high-pitched, querulous voice:

"That's what we done when I sailed along o' Small Sam Small aboard the Royal Bloodhound." And repeated, the wooden leg tap-tapping meanwhile: "That's what we done aboard the Royal Bloodhound. Now, mark me! That's what we done t' Cap'n Small Sam Small."

A young roar, then:

"I'll never have it done t' me!"

And the woman again:

"Ah, hush, dear! Never mind! Ah – hush, now!"

To which there responded a defiant bawl:

"I tells you I won't have it done t' me!"

By all this, to be sure, old Bob Likely, with his ear cocked and his mouth fallen open in amazement, was deeply mystified.

"Look you, Tom!" said he, suspiciously; "what you doin' out here in the frost?"

"Who? Me?" Tom was evasive and downcast.

"Ay."

"Nothin' much."

"'Tis a cold place for that, Tom. An' 'tis a poor lie you're tellin'. 'Tis easy t' see, Tom, that you're busy."

"Ah, well, I got a little job on hand."

"What is your job?"

"This here little job I'm doin' now?"

"Ay."

"Nothin' much."

"What is it?"

Tom was reluctant. "I'm puttin' an edge on my axe," he replied.

"What for, Tom?"

Tom hesitated. "Well – " he drawled. And then, abruptly: "Nothin' much." He was both grieved and agitated.

"But what for?"

"I wants it good an' sharp."

"What you want it good an' sharp for?"

"An axe serves best," Tom evaded, "when 'tis sharp."

"Look you, Tom!" said Bob; "you're behavin' in a very queer way, an' I gives you warnin' o' the fac'. What happens? Here I comes quite unexpected on you by candle-light in the shed. Who is I? I'm His Majesty's Mail. Mark that, Tom! An' what does I find you doin'? Puttin' an edge on an axe. I asks you why you're puttin' an edge on your axe. An' you won't tell. If I didn't know you for a mild man, Tom, I'd fancy you was tired o' your wife."

"Tired o' my wife!" Tom exploded, indignantly. "I isn't goin' t' kill my wife!"

"Who is you goin' t' kill?"

"I isn't goin' t' kill nobody."

"Well, what you goin' t' kill?"

"I isn't goin' t' kill nothin'."

"Well, then," Bob burst out, "what in thunder is you puttin' an edge on your axe for out here in the frost by candle-light at this time o' night?"

"Who? Me?"

"Ay – you!"