n 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From this labor and petulant reflection Doctor Rolfe was withdrawn by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, pu