“Poor little lad! Poor little lad!” sighed Thomas, finally.
“’Tis hard,” sympathized Doctor Joe, who was fond of Jamie. “And there’s another thing, Thomas,” he continued. “You and I must catch more fur this year than we ever caught before, for there’s the mail boat and another steamer to pay the passage on, and they charge a good deal. Trowbridge & Gray pay good prices for fur, and pay cash. Let us hope one of us will catch a silver fox. We’ll need it. I’ll put in all I earn to help save Jamie’s sight.”
“Aye,” said Thomas, “We’ll do our best, and—Doctor Joe—I’m wonderful thankful to you.”
“Thomas, I owe it to you to do everything I can for Jamie, even if I didn’t want to do it so much for Jamie’s own sake,” and Doctor Joe’s voice was strangely husky. “You’ve helped cure me of a dreadful disease—I hope I’m cured—I pray God that I am—but I still need your help and friendship to make me strong.”
“Me—cure you of something?” asked Thomas, mystified. “I was never givin’ you medicine, or curin’ you of any ailment!”
“Yes—the best kind of medicine—your friendship—when I came here, and ever since. Some day I’ll tell you about it, but not now—not yet, Thomas Angus. Now we must think of Jamie, and do our best.”
“Aye, and do our best,” said Thomas.
Thomas Angus had always done his best with cheerful heroism, and how he hoped now to improve upon the best is hard to guess. Down on The Labrador every man must do his best all of the time if he would keep the flour barrel filled and run no debt with traders. In that stern land there can be no idling or wasting of time, and men work as though it were a joy, and the folk endure hardships without ever knowing they are hardships, and are happy, too, withal. Life there is grim and real.
Every boy and every girl, too, learns early to do his or her part, and accept what comes without complaint.