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“That’s age!”

It was.

“Hereafter, as an old man should,” Doctor Rolfe resolved, “I go with caution and I take my ease.”

* * * * *

And it was in this determination that Doctor Rolfe opened the surgery door and came gratefully into the warmth and light and familiar odors of the little room. Caution was the wisdom and privilege of age, wasn’t it? he reflected after supper in the glow of the surgery fire. There was no shame in it, was there? Did duty require of a man that he should practice medicine out of Afternoon Arm for thirty-seven years–in all sorts of weather and along a hundred and thirty miles of the worst coast in the world–and go recklessly into a future of increasing inadequacy? It did not! He had stood his watch. What did he owe life? Nothing–nothing! He had paid in full. Well, then, what did life owe him? It owed him something, didn’t it? Didn’t life owe him at least an old age of reasonable ease and self-respecting independence? It did!

By this time the more he reflected, warming his lean, aching shanks the while, the more he dwelt upon the bitter incidents of that one hundred and thirty miles of harsh coast, through the thirty-seven years he had managed to survive the winds and seas and frosts of it; and the more he dwelt upon his straitened circumstances and increasing age the more petulant he grew.

It was in such moods as this that Doctor Rolfe was accustomed to recall the professional services he had rendered and to dispatch bills therefor; and now he fumbled through the litter of his old desk for pen and ink, drew a dusty, yellowing sheaf of statements of accounts from a dusty pigeonhole, and set himself to work, fuming and grumbling all the while. “I’ll tilt the fee!” he determined. This was to be the new policy–to “tilt the fee,” to demand payment, to go with caution; in this way to provide for an old age of reasonable ease and self-respecting independence. And Doctor Rolfe began to make out statements of accounts due for services rendered.

* * * * *

From this labor and petulant reflection Doctor Rolfe was withdrawn by a tap on the surgery door. He called “Come in!” with no heart for the event. It was no night to be abroad on the ice. Yet the tap could mean but one thing–somebody was in trouble; and as he called “Come in!” and looked up from the statement of account, and while he waited for the door to open, his pen poised and his face in a pucker of trouble, he considered the night and wondered what strength was left in his lean old legs.

A youngster–he had been dripping wet and was now sparkling all over with frost and ice–intruded.

“Thank-the-Lord Cove?”

“No, sir.”

“Mad Harry?”

“Ragged Run, sir.”

“Bad-Weather West’s lad?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Been in the water?”

The boy grinned. He was ashamed of himself. “Yes, sir. I falled through the ice, sir.”

“Come across the Bight?”

The boy stared. “No, sir. A cat couldn’t cross the Bight the night, sir. ‘Tis all rotten. I come alongshore by Mad Harry an’ Thank-the-Lord. I dropped through all of a sudden, sir, in Thank-the-Lord Cove.”

“Who’s sick?”

“Pop’s gun went off, sir.”

Doctor Rolfe rose. “‘Pop’s gun went off!’ Who was in the way?”

“Dolly, sir.”

“And Dolly in the way! And Dolly—-“

“She’ve gone blind, sir. An’ her cheek, sir–an’ one ear, sir—-“

“What’s the night?”

“Blowin’ up, sir. There’s a scud. An’ the moon—-“

“You didn’t cross the Bight? Why not?”

“‘Tis rotten from shore t’ shore. I’d not try the Bight, sir, the night.”

“No?”

“No, sir.” The boy was very grave.

“Mm-m.”

All this while Doctor Rolfe had been moving about the surgery in sure haste–packing a waterproof case with little instruments and vials and what not. And now he got quickly into his boots and jacket, pulled down his coonskin cap, pulled up his sealskin gloves, handed Bad-Weather West’s boy over to his housekeeper for supper and bed (he was a bachelor man), and closed the surgery door upon himself.