"What do you want us to do, Jim?" asked Max.
"I seed yuh goin' along hyah, an' I thort as how p'r'aps yuh wont come over an' see dad. He's got a leg broke, that's flat; but yuh see he feels so pow'ful bad inside he's 'feared he's hurt thar. Cain't yuh come 'long with me, mistah?"
Not for a moment did warm-hearted Max hesitate.
"Sure we will. Lead the way, Jim. I suppose you can bring us back here again to get our bags of mussels," he said, promptly.
"I sartin kin, an' I will, mistah," replied the boy, a faint look as of hope appearing on his brown face.
"But, Max—" whispered Bandy-legs, plucking at his companion's coat sleeve.
"What ails you?" asked Max, impatiently.
"Is it safe, d'ye think?" demanded the other; "wouldn't it be better for us to go on to camp, pick up a gun, and then join Jim here?"
"You can, if you want to," said Max; "as for me, I'm going to believe in the story he tells."
But he did not throw away the stout stick which at the time he chanced to be carrying.