the Notary's wife had had the gift of twins as the crowning fulness of
the year, Maximilian Cour, who was essentially superstitious, tapped on
the table three times, to prevent a turn in the luck.

The baker was too late, however, for the very next day the Notary was
brought home with a nasty gunshot wound in his leg. He had been lured
into duck-hunting on a lake twenty miles away, in the hills, and had been
accidentally shot on an Indian reservation, called Four Mountains, where
the Church sometimes held a mission and presented a primitive sort of
passion-play. From there he had been brought home by his comrades, and
the doctor from the next parish summoned. The Cure assisted the doctor
at first, but the task was difficult to him. At the instant when the
case was most critical the tailor of Chaudiere set his foot inside the
Notary's door. A moment later he relieved the Cure and helped to probe
for shot, and care for an ugly wound.

Charley had no knowledge of surgery, but his fingers were skilful, his
eye was true, and he had intuition. The long operation over, the rural
physician and surgeon washed his hands and then studied Charley with
curious admiration.

"Thank you, Monsieur," he said, as he dried his hands on a towel.
"I couldn't have done it without you. It's a pretty good job; and you
share the credit."

Charley bowed. "It's a good thing not to halloo till you're out of the
woods," he said. "Our friend there has a bad time before him--hein?"

"I take you. It is so." The man of knives and tinctures pulled his
side-whiskers with smug satisfaction as he looked into a small mirror on