The dog whined and sniffed at the door of the room where the unconscious form of his master lay.
"No—no—not now, Grit, old boy," said Mr. Hamilton, softly, and Grit with a look as much as to say that he knew what was going on, stretched out—a grim guardian at the portal of the silent chamber.
Then, from the room, came a voice, at the sound of which the dog gave a joyous bark, and then, as though conscious that he had done wrong, he changed it to a whine. Mr. Hamilton, with wildly beating heart, heard his son murmur:
"Oh, it's cold, so cold! Where am I? Is the fire out? Did I run down any boats?"
Then came the calm voices of the doctors, urging their patient to be quiet.
But this was more than Grit could do. His whining was like the cry of a child, and he scratched frantically at the door.
"That's Grit. Let him in," Dick said, in stronger tones, and Mr. Hamilton uttered a silent prayer of thanksgiving. The portal was swung and Grit bounded into the room, followed by the millionaire. One of Dick's hands hung over the side of the bed, and Grit began licking it frantically.
"Good—old Grit," murmured Dick, and Grit was content.
"How is he?" asked Mr. Hamilton, in a whisper.
"I'm all right, dad," answered Dick, unexpectedly.