s
put out of business he can use the other. He's had fog all summer--and
a sub-tonsillar abscess, too. The big Canadian Pacific ships go by his
place. It's a bad spot. The light-keeper at Forteau tried to bring out
his wife and five children--and lost all but one child on the rocks.
Another keeper at Belle Isle tried to bring out a family of about the
same size--and they all were lost. A doctor stopped in on Captain Cote
on the down trip from Battle Harbor, on his way back to Baltimore.
Evidently whatever he did wasn't enough. Looks as if I must go and
finish the job."

As if to settle the question, even while he spoke there came another
messenger--like the first, a volunteer--bringing another telegram.

This time, as in those messages sent from Cape Norman about the woman,
the tone was sharper, more imperative and anxious.

"Please come as fast as you can to operate me in the throat and save
my life."

The shade of concern in the Doctor's grave face deepened.

"Cote doesn't cry out for nothing," he said. "He's a real man. We must
go. Would you rather stay here and rest a few days, or will you go with
me?" Who would care to toast his toes and dally with a book, while
Grenfell was abroad on such a mission? I had a quick vision of the
gallant run the _Strathcona_ would be called on to make--squirming
through the rocks and bucking the headwinds and the heavy seas, to save
that lighthouse-keeper and keep the big, proud ships from Montreal and
Quebec from running blind in the dark. Not far from that spot a British
man-of-war ran aground in 1922 and was a total loss, though happily her
men were saved. I have been in the wireless cabin on the topmost crags
of Belle Isle when the Straits all round about, fog-bound, were
clamorous with the ships, anchor-down, calling to one another and
whimpering like little lost children trying to clasp hands and afraid
in the dark together.

It would be a run of a hundred miles from St. Anthony to Captain
Cote's strangling throat--and what miles they were! Not until the
middle of June had the mail-boat--that poor, doomed _Ethie_ of the
dog's rescue--been able to pierce the ice. Where those ice-pans met at
Cape Bauld the grinding, rending and heaving of their battle was worse
to hear and see than all the polar bears or the tusked walruses that
ever rose up and fought together.

Dr. Grenfell could be perfectly sure that he would have to run a
gauntlet all the way--picking and choosing b