It must have seemed
to some as if it were the old man of the sea coming ashore.
But no time was wasted before a pot of tea was exactly where I wanted
it to be, and some hot stew was locating itself where I had intended
an hour before the blood of one of my remaining dogs should have gone.
Rigged out in the warm garments that fishermen wear, I started with a
large team as hard as I could race for the hospital, for I had learnt
that the news had gone over that I was lost. It was soon painfully
impressed upon me that I could not much enjoy the ride, for I had to
be hauled like a log up the hills, my feet being frost-burnt so that I
could not walk. Had I guessed this before going into the house, I
might have avoided much trouble.
It is time to bring this egotistic narrative to an end. "Jack" lies
curled up by my feet while I write this short account. "Brin" is once
again leading and lording it over his fellows. "Doc" and the other
survivors are not forgotten, now that we have again returned to the
less romantic episodes of a mission hospital life. There stands in our
hallway a bronze tablet to the memory of three noble dogs, Moody,
Watch, and Spy, whose lives were given for mine on the ice. In my
home in England my brother has placed a duplicate tablet, and has
added these words, "Not one of them is forgotten before your Father
which is in heaven.
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