Anthony.

The wind can go whooping around that house all it likes and it never
will get in unless it is invited. That house was nailed and shingled,
doored and windowed, to stand up against the stiffest blast that ever
came howling across the rocks and bergs from the Humboldt Glacier or
even the North Pole.

Part of the time a blind piano-tuner was at work groping for lost
chords among the strings of Mrs. Grenfell's piano. The piano didn't
seem to need tuning so much. But the man needed the work. You can
imagine there is not much for a blind piano-tuner to do in
Newfoundland. Most of the music is the canned variety of the Victrola.
Or, if there is a dance, someone may squat obligingly in a corner and
hum very loudly what is called by its true name--"chin-music."

Mrs. Grenfell, happy to have her husband back from the gales and fogs
for a little while, was sitting in the puffy armchair with her
knitting-needles, and the boys, Pascoe and Wilfred, were up-stairs
with their teacher, making out jig-saw puzzles in arithmetic or
knocking the tar out of the French Grammar, with various loud sounds.

What the telephone is to busy men in America, giving them no peace
even in the bathtub, the telegraph is to the Doctor in Newfoundland.
If it isn't a man on the doorstep with a bleeding cut or a hacking
cough, then it is a boy with a message which comes from a point twenty
to sixty miles off. Most of the time your doctor or mine has a few
blocks to go: and we think it hard, and he thinks so too, if a patient
clamors for him in the middle of the night. But the middle of the
night is the heart of Grenfell's office hours. Once after conducting
a late evening service in the church at Battle Harbor he had to doctor
forty patients in the room off the chancel before he could get away.

So it was no surprise to him, in the midst of a tale of the old days
at Oxford on the football-field, to have a rat-tat like Poe's raven at
the door, and a respectful "young visitor" doffing his sou'wester.

"Please, sir, a telegram."

Grenfell tore it open.

It read: "Doctor would you please come. My throat is full up and I
can't eat or sleep."

It was signed "J.N. Cote."

"That," said Grenfell, "is the lighthouse-keeper at Greenley Island,
just west of the line that divides Canadian Labrador from Newfoundland
Labrador. He has a big job on his hands. He has two fog-horns, each
with a twelve horse-power Fairbanks gasoline engine, so that if one'