“What’s the matter? Who is it? Are you hurt?”
“It’s me—Hanson Rossmore,” was the halting answer. “I tripped in a hole and sprained my ankle I guess. Can you help me down?”
“I guess so,” answered Jack. “Let’s get a little light on the subject though,” and he opened one of the old solid-wood shutters, that covered the glassless window.
They saw the old hermit, for such he was, lying in the corner of what had evidently been a storeroom of the old mill. He seemed in pain, and one leg was doubled under him.
“How did it happen?” asked Jack, as the boys raised him up.
“Ouch! Oh, my!” he cried, as the weight came on the injured foot. “I can’t step on it.”
“Wait, I’ll get you a stick,” volunteered Blake, hurrying outside.
“Is he—is he dead?” asked Mabel.
“Dead! And him groaning the way he did? Not much!” cried the lad. “It’s only a sprained ankle or something like that. We’ll get him to his shack and he’ll be all right.”
“Poor old man,” murmured Natalie.