I stood at the door of father’s room, which is also the parlor and dining room, hesitating foolishly.  At last I asked the man to come in.

“Daddy dear, here is the doctor,” I said.

You know that father does not consider himself merely as a tax-payer, and a connoisseur in split bamboos.  He prides himself upon his knowledge of men and, before trusting himself to this one, had to study him carefully.  I could see that he was taken a little by surprise.

“Er—­er,” he hesitated, “are you a physician, sir?”

“Appearances are deceptive in these jumping-off places,” answered the young man.  “I possess a diploma or two, and such knowledge as I have is entirely at your service.”

He didn’t really seem to be at all embarrassed.  His look was rather a pleasant one, after all, and suddenly I became inspired with confidence.  I think Daddy was impressed in the same way.

“I’m in an awful fix,” he announced.  “I am quite sure that my leg is broken, and of course it requires the very best attention.  I can afford to take no chances with it and need a first-class man.  Are you quite sure...?”

The doctor sat down by the bed, quietly, and appeared to look at Daddy understandingly.  He doubtless realized that he was in the presence of one of those men whose success in life, together with the possession of grand-parents, causes them to regard themselves as endowed with the combined wisdom of the law and the prophets.  I am quite sure that he also detected the big fund of common sense which lurks in the keen grey eyes under Daddy’s bushy eye-brows.

“You have my deepest sympathy, Mr. Jelliffe,” he began.  “I need hardly point out the fact that I am the only doctor available.  I am going to do my very best for you.  They have some very good men in St. John’s, and we may be able to get one of them to come down here, in a few days, to look over my work.  In the meanwhile your leg must be attended to so that no further harm will be done.  Let us have a look at it.”

“I’ll have to trust you,” said Daddy, very soberly.

“Of course you will have to, Daddy,” I put in.  “You must be very good.  When you move your poor leg hurts you dreadfully, and the doctor will fix it so that it won’t be so painful.”

I stood at the head of the bed and poor Daddy allowed me to stroke his hand, a thing he usually resents.  I know that he was in great pain and feared other unknown tortures.  The poor man looked at the tall doctor’s big hands as if he deemed them instruments of potential torture.  One really couldn’t blame him for having scant confidence in a man whose business appears to be the care of this poverty-stricken population.

The doctor was pulling off his heavy pea-jacket and appeared in dark blue flannel which revealed very capable shoulders.  They reminded me of Harry Lawrence.  The ancient mariner came in with a bag he had been sent for.  He had also deposited his oilskins on the porch and respected other conventionalities by removing his great muddy boots and entering the room in huge flaming scarlet socks, neatly darned with white yarn.  He smiled blandly at Daddy.