“To be sure, Mr. Holwell. We are all under your direction and at your disposal, you know.”
Some of the other boys would have been glad to go along, but evidently Mr. Holwell thought he had enough helpers.
“We’ll use one of our boats,” he said as they gathered, ready to depart on their mission of mercy. “We’ll save considerable time by not pushing through the woods to where you landed, sir. Later on you can recover your skiff.”
Accordingly, they started. Dick rowed across to the mainland, and as the lake chanced to be very still he found little difficulty in making fast time. Leslie was fairly itching to take a turn, but Dick laughingly declared he could do his rowing on the way back.
Upon landing they pulled the boat up on the shore, and then, with the farmer acting as pilot, the expedition of relief set forth. Their pilot knew every foot of ground in that neighborhood, and followed a trail that the boys, thanks to his advice, had used in coming back from their visit to his farm in search of provisions.
Now and then the worried father would turn to Mr. Holwell, and the piteous look on his face always brought forth words of hope and cheer from the kind-hearted minister, who knew full well how the man was suffering.
After a short time the party reached the farm. The man hurried them across by way of a short-cut, meanwhile shouting to his wife that he had brought help.
She met them at the door, a pleasant, motherly looking woman, though just then white of face, and evidently suffering greatly.
“Is he still alive, Mother?” gasped the farmer.
“Yes, but the wound still bleeds in spite of everything I can do to stop it!” she told him. Then her eyes fastened on the minister, whose calling she could guess from his white cravat and clerical clothes, donned because of the day. “And oh! sir, I do hope you can do something to help save our boy, even as the Master whom you preach went about doing good for those in trouble,” she pleaded.