“That’s John!” Frank cried, putting his fingers to his lips and giving out a long, wavering whistle which cut the air like a knife. “That is John,” he went on—“the man I left in charge of my affairs here. I think we would better land at the little pier just above.”
But there was no pier there, only a mass of burned and twisted timbers and blackened stones! However, Frank put ashore in the row-boat, soon returning with the man who had motioned from the shore. He was a muscular young fellow with the dusky complexion of the native Indian and the regular features of the American. He was dressed in European clothing and spoke English fluently, although Frank assured his friends that he had never lived out of Peru.
It was evident that Frank and John had discussed personal affairs on the way to the deck of the Rambler, for the boy now asked:
“What happened to the pier?”
The boys gathered around to hear the reply, for the wreck which had drifted by them told of violence which had not been confined to the boat.
“Before we go into that,” John replied, “suppose you head up to the station just above—where your father used to live—and bring down a surgeon. I have two patients at my hut.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that before?” asked Frank.
“I thought you might want to stop and talk with them,” was the reply, “and every minute is precious if their lives are to be saved.”
“Who are they?” asked Clay, unable to longer restrain his curiosity.
Frank’s eyes asked the same question, and John continued: