XVII. The Fight with Death - Page 2

that the bunk-house close up to the cookery?"

"It is that same."

"And why was it built so close as that?"

"Sure there wuz no ground left by raison av the muskeg at the back av it."

The doctor gave it up. "Drive on," he said. "But what a beautiful spot for a camp right there on that level."

"Beautiful, is it? Faith, it's not beautiful that Craigin calls it, fer ivery thaw the bottom goes clane out av it till ye can't git round fer mud an' the dump fallin' through to the antipods," replied Tom.

"Yes, but up on this flat here, Tommy, under the big pines, that would be a fine spot for the camp."

"It wud that same. Bad luck to the man who set it where it is."

As they drove into the camp the cook came out with some refuse which he dumped down on a heap at the door. The doctor shuddered as he thought of that heap when the sun shone upon it in the mild weather. A huge Swede followed the cook out with a large red muffler wrapped round his throat.

"Hello, Yonie!" cried Tommy. "What's afther gittin' ye up so early?"

"It is no sleep for dis," cried Yonie thickly, pointing to his throat.

The doctor sprang from the sleigh. "Let me look at your throat."

"It's the docthor, Yonie," explained Tommy, whereupon the Swede submitted to the examination.

The doctor turned him toward the east, where the sun was just peeping through the treetops, and looked into his throat. "My man, you go right back to bed quick."

"No, it will not to bed," replied Yonie. "Big work to-day, boss say. He not like men sick."

"You hear me," said the doctor sharply. "You go back to bed. Where's your doctor?"

"He slapes in the office between meals. Yonder," said Tommy, pointing the way.

"Never mind now. Where are your sick men?"

"De seeck mans?" replied the cook. "She's be hall overe. On de bunk-house, on de cook shed. Dat is imposseeb to mak' de cook for den seeck mans hall aroun'."

"What? Do they sit around where you are cooking?"

"Certainment. Dat's warm plas. De bunkhouse she's col.' Poor feller! But she's mak' me beeg troub'. She's cough, cough, speet, speet. Bah! dat's what you call lak' one beas'."

The doctor strode into the cook-house. By the light of the lantern swinging from the roof he found three men huddled over the range, the picture of utter misery. He took down the lantern.

"Here, cook, hold this please, one moment. Allow me to look at your throats, men."

"Dis de docteur, men," said the cook.

A quick glance he gave at each throat, his face growing more stern