Dr. Bailey hesitated. "I grew tired of the life--and, besides--well--I wanted to get away from things and people."

"Pardon my asking," said Fahey hastily. "It was none of my business.

But, Doctor--" here he glanced at the letter again, "Bailey, you say your name is?"

"They called me Bailey when I came in and I let it go."

"Very well, sir," replied Fahey quickly, "Bailey let it be. My offer holds, only I'll make it four thousand. We can't expect a man of your standing for less."

"Mr. Fahey, I came here to work on the construction. I wanted to forget.

When I saw how things were going at the east end I couldn't help jumping it. I never thought I should have enjoyed my professional work so much.

It has kept me busy. I will accept your offer at three thousand, but on the distinct understanding that I am to have my way in everything."

"By gad! you'll take it, anyway, I imagine," said Fahey, with a laugh, "so we may as well put it in the contract. In your department you are supreme. If you see anything you want, take it. If you don't see it, we will get it for you."

On their return to the office they found Dr. Haines in Craigin's room with Maclennan. As they entered they heard Haines' voice saying, "I believe it was a put-up job with Tommy."

"It's a blank lie!" roared Craigin. "I have it from Tommy that it was his own notion to fire that shoe, and a blank good thing for me it was.

Otherwise I should have killed the best man that ever walked into this camp. Here, keep your hands off! You paw around my head like a blanked bull in a sand heap. Where's the doctor? Why ain't he here attending to his business?"

"Craigin," he said quietly, "let me look at that. Ah, it's got a twist, that's all. There, that's better."

Like a child Craigin submitted to his quick, light touch and sank back in his pillow with a groan of content. Dr. Bailey gave him his medicine and induced him, much against his will, to take some nourishment.

"There now, that's all right. To-morrow you'll be sitting up. Now you must be kept quiet." As he said this he motioned them out of the room.

As he was leaving, Craigin called him back.

"I want to see Maclennan," he said gruffly.

"Wait till to-morrow, Mr. Craigin," replied the doctor, in soothing tones.

"I want to see him now."

The doctor called Mr. Maclennan back.

"Maclennan, I want to say there's the whitest man in these mountains. I was a blank, blank fool. But for him I might have been a murderer two or three times over, and, G.o.d help me! but for that lucky shoe of Tommy's I'd have murdered him. I want to say this to you, and I want the doctor here not to lay it up against me."

"All right, Craigin," said Maclennan, "I'm glad to hear you say so. And I guess the doctor here won't cherish any grudge."

Without a word the doctor closed the door upon Maclennan, then went to the bedside. "Craigin, you are a man. I'd be glad to call you my friend."

That was all. The two men shook hands and the doctor pa.s.sed out, leaving Craigin more at peace with himself and with the world than he had been for some days.

XIX

THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK

Soon after d.i.c.k's departure for the West, Ben Fallows took up his abode at the Old Stone Mill and very soon found himself firmly established as a member of the family there; and so it came that he was present on the occasion of Margaret's visit, when the offer of the Kuskinook Hospital was under consideration. The offer came through the Superintendent, but it was due chiefly to the influence on the Toronto Board of Mrs.

Macdougall. It was to her that d.i.c.k had appealed for a matron for the new hospital, which had come into existence largely through his efforts and advocacy. "We want as matron," d.i.c.k had written, "a strong, sane woman who knows her work, and is not afraid to tackle anything. She must be cheery in manner and brave in heart, not too old, and the more beautiful she is the better."

"Cheery in manner and brave in heart?" Mrs. Macdougall had said to herself, looking at the letter. "The very one! She is that and she is all the rest, and she is not too old, and beautiful enough even for Mr.

d.i.c.k." Here Mrs. Macdougall smiled a gentle smile of deprecation at the suggestion that flitted across her mind at that point. "No, she'll never be old to d.i.c.k. We'll send her, and who knows, but--" Not even to herself, however, much less to another, did the little lady breathe a word of any 'arriere pensee' in urging the appointment.

With the Superintendent's letter in her hand, Margaret had gone to consult Barney's mother; for to Margaret Mrs. Boyle was ever "Barney's mother."

"It would be a very fine work," said Mrs. Boyle, "but oh, la.s.sie! it is a long, long way. And you would be far from all that knew you!"

"Why, d.i.c.k is not very far away."

"Aye, but I doubt you would see little of him, with all the travelling he's doing to those terrible camps. And what if anything should happen to you, and no one to care for you?"

The old lady's hands trembled over the tea cups. She had aged much during the last six years. The sword had pierced her heart with Barney's going from home. And while, in the case of her younger and favourite son, she had without grudging made the ancient sacrifice, lines of her surrender showed deep upon her face.

"What's the matter with me goin' along, Miss Margaret?" said Ben, breaking in upon the pause in the conversation. "There's one of the old gang out there. We cawn't 'ave Barney, but you'd do in his place, an' I guess we could make things hump a bit. W'en the gang gits a goin' things begin to hum. You remember that day down at the 'Old King's' w'en me an'

Barney an' d.i.c.k--"

"Och! Ben lad," said Mrs. Boyle, "Margaret will be hearing that story many's the time. But what would you be doing in an hospital?"

"Me? I hain't goin' fer to work in no 'ospital! I'm goin' to look after Miss Margaret. She wants someone to look after her, don't she?"

"Aye, that she does," remarked Mrs. Boyle, with such emphasis that Margaret flushed as she cried, "Not I! My business is to look after other people."

But the more the matter was discussed the clearer it became that Margaret's work lay at Kuskinook, and further, that she could not do better than take Ben along to "look after her," as he put it. Hence, before the year had gone, all through the Windermere and Crow's Nest valleys the fame of the Lady of Kuskinook grew great, and second only to hers was that of her bodyguard, the hospital orderly, Ben Fallows.

And indeed, Ben's usefulness was freely acknowledged by both staff and patients; for by day or by night he was ever ready to skip off on errands of mercy, his wooden leg clicking a vigorous tattoo to his rapid movements. He was especially proud of that wooden leg, a combination of joints and springs so wonderful that he was often heard to lament the clumsiness of the other leg in comparison.

"W'en it comes to legs," Ben would say, "this 'ere's the machine fer me.

It never gits rheumatism in the joints, nor corns on the toes, an' yeh cawn't freeze it with forty below."

As Ben grew in fame so he grew in dignity and in solemn and serious appreciation of himself, and of his position in the hospital. The inst.i.tution became to him not simply a thing of personal pride, but an object of reverent regard. To Ben's mind, taking it all in all, it stood unique among all similar inst.i.tutions in the Dominion. While, as for the matron, as he watched her at her work his wonder grew and, with it, a love amounting to worship. In his mind she dwelt apart as something sacred, and to serve her and to guard her became a religion with Ben. In fact, the Glory of the Kuskinook hospital lay chiefly in this, that it afforded a sphere in which his divinity might exercise her various powers and graces.

It was just at this point that Tommy Tate roused his wrath. Dr. Bailey's foreboding regarding Maclennan's Camp No. 2 had been justified by a serious outbreak in early spring of typhoid, of malignant type, to which Tommy fell a victim. The hospitals along the line were already overflowing, and so the doctor had sent Tommy to Kuskinook in charge of an a.s.sistant. After a six weeks' doubtful struggle with the disease Tommy began to convalesce, and with returning strength revived his invincible love of mischief, which he gratified in provoking the soul of Orderly Ben Fallows, notwithstanding that the two had become firm friends during the tedious course of Tommy's sickness. It didn't take Tommy long to discover Ben's tender spots, the most tender of which he found to be the honour of the hospital and all things and persons a.s.sociated therewith. As to the matron, Tommy ventured no criticism. He had long since enrolled her among his saints, and Ben Fallows himself was not a more enthusiastic devotee than he. And not even to gratify his insatiable desire for fun at Ben's expense would Tommy venture any liberty with the name of the matron. In regard to the young preacher, however, who seemed to be a somewhat important part of the inst.i.tution, Tommy was not so scrupulous, while as to the hospital appointments and methods, he never hesitated to champion the superior methods of those down the line.

It was a beautiful May morning and Tommy was signalizing his unusually vigorous health by a very specially exasperating criticism of the Kuskinook hospital and its belongings.

"It's the beautiful hospitals they are down the line. They don't have the frills and tucks on their shirts, to be sure, but they do the thrick, so they do."

"I guess they're all right fer simple cases," agreed Ben, "but w'en yeh git somethin' real bad yeh got to come 'ere. Look at yerself!"

"Arrah! an' that was the docthor, Hivin be swate to him! He tuk a notion t' me fer a good turn I done him wance. Begob, there's a man fer ye!

Talk about yer white min! Talk about yer prachers an' the like! There's a man fer ye, an' there's none to measure wid him in the mountains!"

"Dr. Bailey, I suppose ye're talkin' about?" inquired Ben, with fine scorn.

"Yis, Dr. Bailey, an' that's the first two letters av his name. An' whin ye find a man to stand forninst him, by the howly poker! I'll ate him alive, an' so I will."

"Well, I hain't agoin' to say, Mr. Tate," said Ben, with studied, politeness, "that no doctor can never compare with a preacher, for I've seen a doctor myself, an' there's the kind of work he done," displaying his wooden leg and foot with pride. "But what I say is that w'en it comes to doin' real 'igh-cla.s.s, fine work, give me the Reverend Richard Boyle, Esquire. Yes, sir, sez I, d.i.c.k Boyle's the man fer me!"