tor, drenched with the spray. He had
torn the machinery limb from limb, and patiently refitted the parts.
Suddenly one cylinder gave a weak kick, and then came a spasmodic
succession of sputters, with long waits between. But with the aid of
the oars the boat was now able to make slow and tedious progress in
the schooner's wake.

At last--at last--along toward midnight they crept into the harbor
where the schooner had also taken refuge.

Tired as they were, they wouldn't turn in at a fisherman's cottage
without boarding the ship to rebuke the sailors for their unhandsome
behavior.

How could they leave men in a tiny boat in distress, perhaps to be
swamped and to drown in those cruel waters out yonder in the blind
dark?

The skipper made solemn reply. "Them cliffs is haunted," he announced.
"More'n one light's been seen there than ever any man lit. When us saw
youse light flashing round right in on the cliffs, us knowed it was no
place for Christian men that time o' night. Us guessed it was just
fairies or devils tryin' to toll us in."

Many of the little boats on the Labrador are not fit to spend a night
at sea, and often it is an anxious business to get into a safe harbor
before sundown. Dr. Grenfell has a reputation as a daredevil skipper,
because so often, on an errand of mercy, he has steamed right out in
the teeth of the storm when hardened, ancient mariners shook their
heads and hugged the land. But the Doctor does not take chances for
the sake of the risk itself--his daring always has behind it the good
reason that he wants to go somewhere in a great hurry in time of
need.

A hundred miles north of Indian Tickle, where there was no light,
Grenfell was caught one night when he was coming south with the
fishing fleet.

All of a sudden the fog fell on the whole group of ships like a thick
wet blanket, before they could make the harbor. There were many reefs
between their position and the open sea: the only thing to do was to
anchor then and there. When a rift came in the fog, Dr. Grenfell saw
the riding-lights of eleven vessels round about him. A northeaster
grew in violence as night came swiftly on, and a heavy sea arose. The
ships tugged at their anchors. The great waves swept the decks from
end to end.

In the hold of the _Strathcona_ were patients lying in the cots, on
their way to Battle Harbor Hospital. As the Doctor would say, there
was less than an inch of iron between them and eternity.

They w