he used to. That’s what I wants.”
“Doesn’t you think, Jim, that we could manage it–if we tried wonderful hard?”
“’Tis accordin’ t’ what fur I traps, mum, afore the ice goes an’ the steamer comes. I’m hopin’ we’ll have enough left over t’ buy the cure.”
“You’re a good father, Jim,” the mother said, at last. “I knows you’ll do for the best. Leave us wait until the spring time comes.”
“Ay,” he agreed; “an’ we’ll say nar a word t’ little Jimmie.”
They laid hold on the hope in Hook’s Kurepain. Life was brighter, then. They looked forward to the cure. The old merry, scampering Jimmie, with his shouts and laughter and gambols and pranks, was to return to them. When, as the winter dragged along, Jim Grimm brought home the fox skins from the wilderness, Jimmie fondled them, and passed upon their quality, as to colour and size and fur. Jim Grimm and his wife exchanged smiles. Jimmie did not know that upon the quality and number of the skins, which he delighted to stroke and pat, depended his cure. Let the winter pass! Let the ice move out from the coast! Let the steamer come for the letters! Let her go and return again! Then Jimmie should know.
“We’ll be able t’ have one bottle, whatever,” said the mother.
“’Twill be more than that, mum,” Jim Grimm answered, confidently. “We wants our Jimmie cured.”
CHAPTER IV
In Which Jimmie Grimm Surprises a Secret, Jim Grimm makes a Rash Promise, and a Tourist From the States Discovers the Marks of Tog’s Teeth
With spring came the great disappointment. The snow melted from the hills; wild flowers blossomed where the white carpet had lain; the ice was ready to break and move out to sea with the next wind from the west. There were no more foxes to be caught. Jim Grimm bundled the skins, strapped them on his back, and took them to the storekeeper at Shelter Harbour, five miles up the coast; and when their value had been determined he came home disconsolate.
Jimmie’s mother had been watching from the window. “Well?” she said, when the man came in.
“’Tis not enough,” he groaned. “I’m sorry, mum; but ’tis not enough.”
She said nothing, but waited for him to continue; for she feared to give him greater distress.
“’Twas a fair price he gave me,” Jim Grimm continued. “I’m not complainin’ o’ that. But there’s not enough t’ do more than keep us in food, with pinchin’, till we sells the fish in the fall. I’m sick, mum–I’m fair sick an’ miserable along o’ disappointment.”
“’Tis sad t’ think,” said the mother, “that Jimmie’s not t’ be cured–after all.”
“For the want o’ twelve dollars!” he sighed.
They were interrupted by the clatter of Jimmie’s crutches, coming in haste from the inner room. Then entered Jimmie.
“I heered what you said,” he cried, his eyes blazing, his whole worn little body fairly quivering with excitement. “I heered you say ’cure.’ Is I t’ be cured?”
They did not answer.
“Father! Mama! Did you say I was t’ be cured?”
“Hush, dear!” said the mother.
“I can’t hush. I wants t’ know. Father, tell me. Is I t’ be cured?”
“Jim,” said the mother to Jim Grimm, “tell un.”
“You is!” Jim shouted, catching Jimmie in his arms, and rocking him like a baby. “You is t’ be cured. Debt or no debt, lad, I’ll see you cured!”
The matter of credit was easily managed. The old storekeeper at Shelter Harbour did not hesitate. Credit? Of course, he would give Jim Grimm that. “Jim,” said he, “I’ve knowed you for a long time, an’ I knows you t’ be a good man. I’ll fit you out for the summer an’ the winter, if you wants me to, an’ you can take your own time about payin’ the bill.” And so Jim Grimm withdrew twelve dollars from the credit of his account.
They began to keep watch on the ice–to wish for a westerly gale, that the white waste might be broken and dispersed.
“Father,” said Jimmie, one night, when the man was putting him to bed, “how long will it be afore that there Kurepain comes?”
“I ’low the steamer’ll soon be here.”
“Ay?”
“An’ then she’ll take the letter with the money.”
“Ay?”
“An’ she’ll be gone about a month an’ a fortnight, an’ then she’ll be back with–”
“The cure!” cried Jimmie, giving his father an affectionate dig in the ribs. “She’ll be back with the cure!”
“Go t’ sleep, lad.”
“I can’t,” Jimmie whispered. “I can’t for joy o’ thinkin’ o’ that cure.”
By and by the ice moved out, and, in good time, the steamer came. It was at the end of a blustering day, with the night falling thick. Passengers and crew alike–from the grimy stokers to the shivering American tourists–were relieved to learn, when the anchor went down with a splash and a rumble, that the “old man” was to “hang her down” until the weather turned “civil.”
Accompanied by the old schoolmaster, who was to lend him aid in registering the letter to the Kurepain Company, Jim Grimm went aboard in the punt. It was then dark.
“You knows a Yankee when you sees one,” said he, when they reached the upper deck. “Point un out, an’ I’ll ask un.”
“Ay, I’m travelled,” said the schoolmaster, importantly. “And ’twould be wise to ask about this Kurepain Company before you post the letter.”
Thus it came about that Jim Grimm timidly approached two gentlemen who were chatting merrily in the lee of the wheel-house.
“Do you know the Kurepain, sir?” he asked.
“Eh? What?” the one replied.
“Hook’s, sir.”
“Hook’s? In the name of wonder, man, Hook’s what?”
“Kurepain, sir.”
“Hook’s Kurepain,” said the stranger. “Doctor,” addressing his companion, “do you recommend–”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
“Then you do not?” said the other.
The doctor eyed Jim Grimm. “Why do you ask?” he inquired.
“’Tis for me little son, sir,” Jim replied. “He’ve a queer sort o’ rheumaticks. We’re thinkin’ the Kurepain will cure un. It have cured a Minister o’ the Gospel, sir, an’ a Champion o’ the World; an’ we was allowin’ that it wouldn’t have much trouble t’ cure little Jimmie Grimm. They’s as much as twelve dollars, sir, in this here letter, which I’m sendin’ away. I’m wantin’ t’ know, sir, if they’ll send the cure if I sends the money.”
The doctor was silent for a moment. “Where do you live?” he asked, at last.
Jim pointed to a far-off light. “Jimmie will be at that window,” he said, “lookin’ out at the steamer’s lights.”
“Do you care for a run ashore?” asked the doctor, turning to his fellow tourist.
“If it would not overtax you.”
“No, no–I’m strong enough, now. The voyage has put me on my feet again. Come–let us go.”
Jim Grimm took them ashore in the punt; guided them along the winding, rocky path; led them into the room where Jimmie sat at