Flashing the rays of a pocket electric torch he carried, down into the hole in the snow, Mr. Dalton saw Rick lying at the bottom, and it did not take the father long, with the help of some neighbors who brought shovels, to dig a tunnel through the snow to where Rick was and carry him out of the drift. If they had started to get him from above they might have caved the pile of snow down on top of him.
"But what made my head feel so funny?" asked Rick, when he had been taken home, put to bed and the doctor called.
"You struck on your head pretty hard," answered Dr. Wayne with a smile. "It made you partly unconscious at times, and then you got numb with the cold, and almost went too sound asleep."
"Is my leg broken?" asked Rick. "I couldn't stand up on it."
"No, it was only twisted by your fall," the doctor told him. "You will be all right in a few days."
And so Rick was, but during those few days he had to stay in bed, though part of the time he could lie on a couch and look out of the window at the snow. And all this time Ruddy never left him. The dog stayed beside his master, only going out at night to his kennel when Rick had fallen asleep.
"And don't let that old sailor or the junk man get him," Rick begged of his father and mother, when it came time to put Ruddy out.
"I guess Ruddy himself won't let them come near him again," spoke Mr. Dalton.
And so there grew between Rick and Ruddy a firmer bond of love and affection than ever. When Rick grew tired of reading or of looking out of the window he would glance toward Ruddy. And the dog, who had been, perhaps, asleep on the rug near his master's chair, seemed to know the minute Rick looked at him, even if the dog's eyes were shut, for Ruddy would give a low bark of pleasure and his tail would thump the floor.
That was Ruddy's way of talking.