I was mad with fever or I never would have done it. I sat staring at the packet in my hand, and was just about to tear the paper up and cast it away when I noticed the writing was in ink and in a neat clerkly hand, whereas I had written with a broad carpenter’s pencil. For a moment, in my semi-delirious condition, I was lost in wonder at this transformation; then suddenly the truth flashed upon me. Tremblingly, I smoothed the paper out, and this is what I read: “Cheer up, old chap. We are starting to bring you help as soon as we can round up the doc. On the off chance that he may reach you before we do, I am sending this back by old Jim.—George.”
“My God!” I cried in sorrow, as I reached over, gathered the faithful dog up in my arms and kissed his cold muzzle. “Poor old Jim, you saved my life twice in forty-eight hours, and I rewarded you with a blow like that!”
When the doctor and two Mounted Policemen drove up an hour later, they found me delirious, with the dog in my arms licking away my tears, while I kissed and cried over him, they said, as if he had been a child.
I may add that I got well and secured the title to my homestead in due time, that old Jim helped me to put in my residence duties; and when he died a few years ago, of old age, I put up a slab at his grave inscribed as follows:
JIM
A faithful dog, the friend and companion of many years.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the January 1927 issue of The Blue Book Magazine.]