Two days later, Jim Grimm, practicing unscrupulous deception, lured Tog into captivity. That afternoon the folk of Buccaneer Cove solemnly hanged him by the neck until he was dead, which is the custom in that land. I am glad that they disposed of him. He had a noble body—strong and beautiful, giving delight to the beholder, capable of splendid usefulness. But he had not one redeeming trait of character to justify his existence.
“I wonder why Tog was so bad, dad,” Jimmie mused, one day, when, as they mistakenly thought, he was near well again.
“I s’pose,” Jim explained, “’twas because his father was a wolf.”
Little Jimmie Grimm was not the same after that. For some strange reason he went lame, and the folk of Buccaneer Cove said that he was “took with the rheumatiz.”
“Wisht I could be cured,” the little fellow used to sigh.
CHAPTER III
In Which Little Jimmie Grimm Goes Lame and His Mother Discovers the Whereabouts of a Cure
Little Jimmie Grimm was then ten years old. He had been an active, merry lad, before the night of the assault of Tog and the two wolves—inclined to scamper and shout, given to pranks of a kindly sort. His affectionate, light-hearted disposition had made him the light of his mother’s eyes, and of his father’s, too, for, child though he was, lonely Jim Grimm found him a comforting companion. But he was now taken with what the folk of Buccaneer Cove called “rheumatiz o’ the knee.” There were days when he walked in comfort; but there were also times when he fell to the ground in a sudden agony and had to be carried home. There were weeks when he could not walk at all. He was not now so merry as he had been. He was more affectionate; but his eyes did not flash in the old way, nor were his cheeks so fat and rosy. Jim Grimm and the lad’s mother greatly desired to have him cured.
“’Twould be like old times,” Jim Grimm said once, when Jimmie was put to bed, “if Jimmie was only well.”
“I’m afeared,” the mother sighed, “that he’ll never be well again.”
“For fear you’re right, mum,” said Jim Grimm, “we must make him happy every hour he’s with us. Hush, mother! Don’t cry, or I’ll be cryin’, too!”
Nobody connected Jimmie Grimm’s affliction with the savage teeth of Tog.
It was Jimmie’s mother who discovered the whereabouts of a cure. Hook’s Kurepain was the thing to do it! Who could deny the virtues of that “healing balm”? They were set forth in print, in type both large and small, on a creased and dirty remnant of the Montreal Weekly Globe and Family Messenger, which had providentially strayed into that far port of the Labrador. Who could dispute the works of “the invaluable discovery”? Was it not a positive cure for bruises, sprains, chilblains, cracked hands, stiffness of the joints, contraction of the muscles, numbness of the limbs, neuralgia, rheumatism, pains in the chest, warts, frost bites, sore throat, quinsy, croup, and various other ills? Was it not an excellent hair restorer, as well? If it had cured millions (and apparently it had), why shouldn’t it cure little Jimmie Grimm? So Jimmie’s mother longed with her whole heart for a bottle of the “boon to suffering humanity.”
“I’ve found something, Jim Grimm,” said she, a teasing twinkle in her eye, when, that night, Jimmie’s father came in from the snowy wilderness, where he had made the round of his fox traps.
“Have you, now?” he asked, curiously. “What is it?”
“’Tis something,” said she, “t’ make you glad.”
“Come, tell me!” he cried, his eyes shining.
“I’ve heard you say,” she went on, smiling softly, “that you’d be willin’ t’ give anything t’ find it. I’ve heard you say that—”
“’Tis a silver fox!”
“I’ve heard you say,” she continued, shaking her head, “‘Oh,’ I’ve heard you say, ‘if I could only find it I’d be happy.’”
“Tell me!” he coaxed. “Please tell me!”
She laid a hand on his shoulder. The remnant of the Montreal Weekly Globe and Family Messenger she held behind her.
“’Tis a cure for Jimmie,” said she.
“No!” he cried, incredulous; but there was yet the ring of hope in his voice. “Have you, now?”
“Hook’s Kurepain,” said she, “never failed yet.”
“’Tis wonderful!” said Jim Grimm.
She spread the newspaper on the table and placed her finger at that point of the list where the cure of rheumatism was promised.
“Read that,” said she, “an’ you’ll find ’tis all true.”
Jim Grimm’s eye ran up to the top of the page. His wife waited, a smile on her lips. She was anticipating a profound impression.
“‘Beauty has wonderful charms,’” Jim Grimm read. “‘Few men can withstand the witchcraft of a lovely face. All hearts are won—’”
“No, no!” the mother interrupted, hastily. “That’s the marvellous Oriental Beautifier. I been readin’ that, too. But ’tis not that. ’Tis lower down. Beginnin’, ‘At last the universal remedy of Biblical times.’ Is you got it yet?”
“Ay, sure!”
And thereupon Jim Grimm of Buccaneer Cove discovered that a legion of relieved and rejuvenated rheumatics had without remuneration or constraint sung the virtues of the Kurepain and the praises of Hook. Poor ignorant Jim Grimm did not for a moment doubt the existence of the Well-Known Traveller, the Family Doctor, the Minister of the Gospel, the Champion of the World. He was ready to admit that the cure had been found.
“I’m willin’ t’ believe,” said he, solemnly, the while gazing very earnestly into his wife’s eyes, “that ’twould do Jimmie a world o’ good.”
“Read on,” said she.
“‘It costs money to make the Kurepain,’” Jim read, aloud. “‘It is not a sugar-and-water remedy. It is a cure, manufactured at great expense. Good medicines come high. But the peerless Kurepain is cheap when compared with the worthless substitutes now on the market and sold for just as good. Our price is five dollars a bottle; three bottles guaranteed to cure.’”
Jim Grimm stopped dead. He looked up. His wife steadily returned his glance. The Labrador dweller is a poor man—a very poor man. Rarely does a dollar of hard cash slip into his hand. And this was hard cash. Five dollars a bottle! Five dollars for that which was neither food nor clothing!
“’Tis fearful!” he sighed.
“But read on,” said she.
“‘In order to introduce the Kurepain into this locality, we have set aside one thousand bottles of this incomparable medicine. That number, and no more, we will dispose of at four dollars a bottle. Do not make a mistake. When the supply is exhausted, the price will rise to eight dollars a bottle, owing to a scarcity of one of the ingredients. We honestly advise you, if you are in pain or suffering, to take advantage of this rare opportunity. A word to the wise is sufficient. Order today.’”
“’Tis a great bargain, Jim,” the mother whispered.
“Ay,” Jim answered, dubiously.
His wife patted his hand. “When Jimmie’s cured,” she went on, “he could help you with the traps, an’—”
“’Tis not for that I wants un cured,” Jim Grimm flashed. “I’m willin’ an’ able for me labour. ’Tis not for that. I’m just thinkin’ all the time about seein’ him run about like he used to. That’s what I wants.”
“Doesn’t you think, Jim, that we could manage it—if we tried wonderful hard?”
“’Tis accordin’ t’ what fur I traps, mum, afore the ice goes an’ the steamer comes. I’m hopin’ we’ll have enough left over t’ buy the cure.”
“You’re a good father, Jim,” the mother said, at last. “I knows you’ll do for the best. Leave us wait until the spring time comes.”
“Ay,” he agreed; “an’ we’ll say nar a word t’ little Jimmie.”
They laid hold on the hope in Hook’s Kurepain. Life was brighter, then. They looked forward to the cure. The old merry, scampering Jimmie, with his shouts and laughter and gambols and pranks, was to return to them. When,
as the winter dragged along, Jim Grimm brought home the fox skins from the wilderness, Jimmie fondled them, and passed upon their quality, as to colour and size and fur. Jim Grimm and his wife exchanged smiles. Jimmie did not know that upon the quality and number of the skins, which he delighted to stroke and pat, depended his cure. Let the winter pass! Let the ice move out from the coast! Let the steamer come for the letters! Let her go and return again! Then Jimmie should know.
“We’ll be able t’ have one bottle, whatever,” said the mother.
“’Twill be more than that, mum,” Jim Grimm answered, confidently. “We wants our Jimmie cured.”
CHAPTER IV
In Which Jimmie Grimm Surprises a Secret, Jim Grimm makes a Rash Promise, and a Tourist From the States Discovers the Marks of Tog’s Teeth
With spring came the great disappointment. The snow melted from the hills; wild flowers blossomed where the white carpet had lain; the ice was ready to break and move out to sea with the next wind from the west. There were no more foxes to be caught. Jim Grimm bundled the skins, strapped them on his back, and took them to the storekeeper at Shelter Harbour, five miles up the coast; and when their value had been determined he came home disconsolate.
Jimmie’s mother had been watching from the window. “Well?” she said, when the man came in.
“’Tis not enough,” he groaned. “I’m sorry, mum; but ’tis not enough.”
She said nothing, but waited for him to continue; for she feared to give him greater distress.
“’Twas a fair price he gave me,” Jim Grimm continued. “I’m not complainin’ o’ that. But there’s not enough t’ do more than keep us in food, with pinchin’, till we sells the fish in the fall. I’m sick, mum—I’m fair sick an’ miserable along o’ disappointment.”
“’Tis sad t’ think,” said the mother, “that Jimmie’s not t’ be cured—after all.”
“For the want o’ twelve dollars!” he sighed.
They were interrupted by the clatter of Jimmie’s crutches, coming in haste from the inner room. Then entered Jimmie.
“I heered what you said,” he cried, his eyes blazing, his whole worn little body fairly quivering with excitement. “I heered you say ’cure.’ Is I t’ be cured?”
They did not answer.
“Father! Mama! Did you say I was t’ be cured?”
“Hush, dear!” said the mother.
“I can’t hush. I wants t’ know. Father, tell me. Is I t’ be cured?”
“Jim,” said the mother to Jim Grimm, “tell un.”
“You is!” Jim shouted, catching Jimmie in his arms, and rocking him like a baby. “You is t’ be cured. Debt or no debt, lad, I’ll see you cured!”
The matter of credit was easily managed. The old storekeeper at Shelter Harbour did not hesitate. Credit? Of course, he would give Jim Grimm that. “Jim,” said he, “I’ve knowed you for a long time, an’ I knows you t’ be a good man. I’ll fit you out for the summer an’ the winter, if you wants me to, an’ you can take your own time about payin’ the bill.” And so Jim Grimm withdrew twelve dollars from the credit of his account.
They began to keep watch on the ice—to wish for a westerly gale, that the white waste might be broken and dispersed.
“Father,” said Jimmie, one night, when the man was putting him to bed, “how long will it be afore that there Kurepain comes?”
“I ’low the steamer’ll soon be here.”
“Ay?”
“An’ then she’ll take the letter with the money.”
“Ay?”
“An’ she’ll be gone about a month an’ a fortnight, an’ then she’ll be back with—”
“The cure!” cried Jimmie, giving his father an affectionate dig in the ribs. “She’ll be back with the cure!”
“Go t’ sleep, lad.”
“I can’t,” Jimmie whispered. “I can’t for joy o’ thinkin’ o’ that cure.”
By and by the ice moved out, and, in good time, the steamer came. It was at the end of a blustering day, with the night falling thick. Passengers and crew alike—from the grimy stokers to the shivering American tourists—were relieved to learn, when the anchor went down with a splash and a rumble, that the “old man” was to “hang her down” until the weather turned “civil.”
Accompanied by the old schoolmaster, who was to lend him aid in registering the letter to the Kurepain Company, Jim Grimm went aboard in the punt. It was then dark.
“You knows a Yankee when you sees one,” said he, when they reached the upper deck. “Point un out, an’ I’ll ask un.”
“Ay, I’m travelled,” said the schoolmaster, importantly. “And ’twould be wise to ask about this Kurepain Company before you post the letter.”
Thus it came about that Jim Grimm timidly approached two gentlemen who were chatting merrily in the lee of the wheelhouse.
“Do you know the Kurepain, sir?” he asked.
“Eh? What?” the one replied.
“Hook’s, sir.”
“Hook’s? In the name of wonder, man, Hook’s what?”
“Kurepain, sir.”
“Hook’s Kurepain,” said the stranger. “Doctor,” addressing his companion, “do you recommend—”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
“Then you do not?” said the other.
The doctor eyed Jim Grimm. “Why do you ask?” he inquired.
“’Tis for me little son, sir,” Jim replied. “He’ve a queer sort o’ rheumaticks. We’re thinkin’ the Kurepain will cure un. It have cured a Minister o’ the Gospel, sir, an’ a Champion o’ the World; an’ we was allowin’ that it wouldn’t have much trouble t’ cure little Jimmie Grimm. They’s as much as twelve dollars, sir, in this here letter, which I’m sendin’ away. I’m wantin’ t’ know, sir, if they’ll send the cure if I sends the money.”
The doctor was silent for a moment. “Where do you live?” he asked, at last.
Jim pointed to a far-off light. “Jimmie will be at that window,” he said, “lookin’ out at the steamer’s lights.”
“Do you care for a run ashore?” asked the doctor, turning to his fellow tourist.
“If it would not overtax you.”
“No, no—I’m strong enough, now. The voyage has put me on my feet again. Come—let us go.”
Jim Grimm took them ashore in the punt; guided them along the winding, rocky path; led them into the room where Jimmie sat at the window. The doctor felt of Jimmie’s knee, and asked him many questions. Then he held a whispered consultation with his companion and the schoolmaster; and of their conversation Jimmie caught such words and phrases as “slight operation” and “chloroform” and “that table” and “poor light, but light enough” and “rough and ready sort of work” and “no danger.” Then Jim Grimm was dispatched to the steamer with the doctor’s friend; and when they came back the man carried a bag in his hand. The doctor asked Jimmie a question, and Jimmie nodded his head. Whereupon, the doctor called him a brave lad, and sent Jim Grimm out to the kitchen to keep his wife company for a time, first requiring him to bring a pail of water and another lamp.
When they called Jim Grimm in again—he knew what they were about, and it seemed a long, long time before the call came—little Jimmie was lying on the couch, sick and pale, with his knee tightly bandaged, but with his eyes glowing.
“Mama! Father!” the boy whispered, exultantly. “They says I’m cured.”
“Yes,” said the doctor; “he’ll be all right, now. His trouble was not rheumatism. It was caused by a fragment of the bone, broken off at the knee-joint. At least, that’s as plain as I can make it to you. He was bitten by a dog, was he not? So he says. And he remembers that he felt a stab of pain in his knee at the time. That or the fall probably accounts for it. At any rate, I have removed that fragment. He’ll be all right, after a bit. I’ve told the schoolmaster how to take care of him, and I’ll leave some medicine, and—well—he’ll soon be all right.”
When the doctor was about to step f
rom the punt to the steamer’s ladder, half an hour later, Jim Grimm held up a letter to him.
“’Tis for you, sir,” he said.
“What’s this?” the doctor demanded.
“’Tis for you to keep, sir,” Jim answered, with dignity. “’Tis the money for the work you done.”
“Money!” cried the doctor. “Why, really,” he stammered, “I—you see, this is my vacation—and I—”
“I ’low, sir,” said Jim, quietly, “that you’ll ’blige me.”
“Well, well!” exclaimed the doctor, being wise, “that I will!”
Jimmie Grimm got well long before it occurred to his father that the fishing at Buccaneer Cove was poor and that he might do better elsewhere.
CHAPTER V
In Which Jimmie Grimm Moves to Ruddy Cove and Settles on the Slope of the Broken Nose, Where, Falling in With Billy Topsail and Donald North, He Finds the Latter a Coward, But Learns the Reason, and Scoffs no Longer. In Which, Also, Donald North Leaps a Breaker to Save a Salmon Net, and Acquires a Strut
When old Jim Grimm moved to Ruddy Cove and settled his wife and son in a little white cottage on the slope of a bare hill called Broken Nose, Jimmie Grimm was not at all sorry. There were other boys at Ruddy Cove—far more boys, and jollier boys, and boys with more time to spare, than at Buccaneer. There was Billy Topsail, for one, a tow-headed, blue-eyed, active lad of Jimmie’s age; and there was Donald North, for another. Jimmie Grimm liked them both. Billy Topsail was the elder, and up to more agreeable tricks; but Donald was good enough company for anybody, and would have been quite as admirable as Billy Topsail had it not been that he was afraid of the sea. They did not call him a coward at Ruddy Cove; they merely said that he was afraid of the sea.
And Donald North was.
Jimmie Grimm, himself no coward in a blow of wind, was inclined to scoff, at first; but Billy Topsail explained, and then Jimmie Grimm scoffed no longer, but hoped that Donald North would be cured of fear before he was much older. As Billy Topsail made plain to the boy, in excuse of his friend, Donald North was brave enough until he was eight years old; but after the accident of that season he was so timid that he shrank from the edge of the cliff when the breakers were beating the rocks below, and trembled when his father’s fishing punt heeled to the faintest gust.
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