"Come along soon. Wife worse."
The storm instead of going down was more violent than ever when the grey day came. The sun was not seen at all. On the contrary, the air was filled with a mad whirl of pelting, stinging flakes almost as hard as Indian arrow-heads. The dogs would be no good in the teeth of such a storm—for the team-mates who work with a will are those that are best acquainted, and with an unknown driver this team suddenly thrown together would have pulled as many different ways as there were fierce and headstrong dogs. They would be at each other's throats before they were out of sight of the houses.
As he waited, walking restlessly up and down, in his brown sweater and thick leggins, Grenfell was plagued with the picture of the woman fighting for her life till help should come from the one man who could give it.
Still another of those telegrams! This time the message read: "Come immediately if you can. Wife still holding out."
Just as he read the words, there were voices, and battering hands at the door.
Two men, white as Santa Claus from head to foot, staggered into the room, with the wind whooping at their backs as if in a wild anger that they escaped its clutches.
Grenfell, accustomed as he was to the brave men of a hard country, fairly gasped when he saw them.
"Where did you come from?"
"We comes to fetch you, sir, for the sick woman at Cape Norman."
"Do you think dogs can get me there now?" the Doctor asked, anxiously.