d thereon, and mentioned the fact that even
the Notary's wife had had the gift of twins as the crowning fulness of
the year, Maximilian Cour, who was essentially superstitious, tapped on
the table three times, to prevent a turn in the luck.

The baker was too late, however, for the very next day the Notary was
brought home with a nasty gunshot wound in his leg. He had been lured
into duck-hunting on a lake twenty miles away, in the hills, and had
been accidentally shot on an Indian reservation, called Four Mountains,
where the Church sometimes held a mission and presented a primitive sort
of passion-play. From there he had been brought home by his comrades,
and the doctor from the next parish summoned. The Cure assisted the
doctor at first, but the task was difficult to him. At the instant when
the case was most critical the tailor of Chaudiere set his foot inside
the Notary's door. A moment later he relieved the Cure and helped to
probe for shot, and care for an ugly wound.

Charley had no knowledge of surgery, but his fingers were skilful, his
eye was true, and he had intuition. The long operation over, the rural
physician and surgeon washed his hands and then studied Charley with
curious admiration.

"Thank you, Monsieur," he said, as he dried his hands on a towel. "I
couldn't have done it without you. It's a pretty good job; and you share
the credit."

Charley bowed. "It's a good thing not to halloo till you're out of the
woods," he said. "Our friend there has a bad time before him--hein?"

"I take you. It is so." The man of knives and tinctures pulled his
side-whiskers with smug satisfaction as he looked into a small mirror on
the wall. "Do you chance to know if madame has any cordials or spirits?"
he added, straightening his waistcoat and adjusting his cravat.

"It is likely," answered Charley, and moved away to the window looking
upon the street.

The doctor turned in surprise. He was used to being waited on, and he
had expected the tailor to follow the tradition.

"We might--eh?" he said suggestively. "It is usually the custom to
provide refreshment, but the poor woman, madame, has been greatly
occupied with her husband, and--"

"And the twins," Charley put in drily--"and a house full of work, and
only one old crone in the kitchen to help. Still, I have no doubt she
has thought of the cordials too. Women are the slaves of custom--ah,
here they are, as I said, and--"

He stopped short, for in the door