Jim's father had found a natural cave under a great shelf of rock that jutted out from the base of the hill.
Here the two were safe from the violent summer storms; and with a couple of worn blankets, a few cooking utensils, and a scant allowance of food, they were able to carry on the business of gathering the fine shells, with their mother-of-pearl lining, so necessary in the button trade.
Several piles of shells caught the eyes of the two boys as they approached the strange camp.
Max, however, looking farther, discovered a form upon the ground, partly covered by a blanket.
A dreadful suspicion came over him that the man might have died while Jim was seeking help. This, however, was speedily dissipated, for he saw "Tom Jones" raise himself on one arm and stare hard at them.
Fear was in those burning dark eyes, such fear as might be shown by a fugitive from justice, one who believed every honest man's hand was raised against him.
But Max would not allow himself to even think of this. The poor fellow was in trouble; he needed help the worst kind, and it was no business of theirs to ask questions.
"We've come to see if we can help you, Mr. Jones," he remarked, in his customary cheery tone, as he bent over the injured man.
"Jim got yuh, did he?" muttered the other. "Knowed 'twar the on'y thing tuh be did, no matter wat follered."
"Make your mind easy, because there's nothing going to follow. Now, it happens that even if I am only a boy, I've always had an itching to be a surgeon some day. So I know a little about setting broken bones. I'm going to play doctor, if you'll let me, Mr. Jones."