chance at
further education. He had a wooden leg, his own having been removed by
an operation for tuberculosis. On his arrival in Montreal the
omnivorous reporter saw in him excellent copy, and forthwith printed
the following purely fictitious account of the cause of his
disability. Little Kommak, so the story ran (the boy is of pure Irish
extraction, and is named Michael Flynn), was one day sitting with his
mother in his igloo when he saw a large polar bear approaching. Having
no weapon, and not desiring the presence of the bear in any capacity
at their midday meal, he stuck his leg out through the small aperture
of the igloo. The bear bit it off on the principle of half a loaf
being better than no bread. The whole thing was a fabric of lies from
beginning to end. The St. John's papers discovered the article,
pounced upon it, and printed the article "_que je viens de finir_."
Of course, if the local editor lacked humour enough to credit the
doctor with such a fairy tale, one could pity the poor soul, but his
diatribe has rather the earmarks of jealousy.

[Illustration: THE BEAR BIT HIS LEG OFF]

A lovely sunset is lighting up the sea and sky and hills, and turning
the plain little settlement, in the harbour of which we are anchored,
into the Never, Never Land. The scene is so bewitching that I find my
soul purged by it of the bad taste of the attack. I'll leave you to
digest the mixed metaphor undisturbed while I go below and help with
the patients who have begun pouring aboard.

_Same evening_

An old chap has just climbed over the rail, who looks like an early
patriarch, but his dignity is impaired by the moth-eaten high silk hat
which surmounts his white hair. The people regard him with apparent
deference, due either to the hat or his inherent character. Looking at
his fine old face, one is inclined to believe it is the latter.

The expressions these people use are so nautical and so apt! Every
patient who comes aboard expressed the wish to be "sounded" in some
portion of his or her anatomy for the suspected ailment which has
brought him. One burly fisherman solemnly took off his huge oily
sea-boot, placed a grimy forefinger on his heel, and remarked
sententiously that the doctor "must sound him right there." The
prescription was soap and water--a diagnosis in which I entirely
concurred. The next case was a young girl with a "kink in her glutch."
It has the sound of all too familiar motor trouble, but w