"Not as bad as we feared," answered one of the physicians. "He has inhaled no flames, but he struck his head on something as he jumped. Probably on a bit of floating wreckage. He will be all right after a few days' rest. But he must be kept quiet. No excitement. I congratulate you on your brave son, Mr. Hamilton."
The millionaire silently wrung the hand the physician held out to him.
"It wasn't anything," murmured Dick, in sleepy tones. "I had to stop the boat, and the only way I saw was to put a hole in the bottom. Too bad; it was a fine boat."
"You can have another, if we can't raise her," interrupted Mr. Hamilton.
"Then I knew I'd have to swim under water to avoid the flames," went on Dick. "I held my breath as long as I could, and then I hit something. I can't remember any more."
He sank into a doze, with Grit still licking the drooping hand.
"I think he will sleep now," said the physician who had examined Dick at the lake. "We will go out, and the dog had better come, too."
"Come, Grit," called Mr. Hamilton, but Grit paid no attention.
"I'll bring him," said the physician, as he reached for the bulldog's collar. Grit growled menacingly.
"Better not," advised the millionaire. "No one but Dick can do anything with him."