Sandy and Mr. Kennedy and the physician, whose name was Dr. Hilliard, disappeared down the hatch. As they did, a tall, thin, furtive figure crept around the cabin. It glanced around fearfully, before sneaking down the gangplank and running up the wharf.
It was Mr. Briggs.
Below, meanwhile, Dr. Hilliard had gently unwrapped the torn sheets bound around Jerry James’s ankle. He studied the injured member with professional concern. Both Jerry and Sandy watched his face anxiously, for both of them were thinking of the football season that lay ahead.
“John,” Dr. Hilliard said, with mock gravity, “if they had more people like this young oak stump around, I’d be out of business.”
“Hooray!” Sandy cried, and Jerry James grinned with delight.
“Of course,” the doctor hurried on, “you’ll need a cane for a week or two, young man. But otherwise I’d say you’re none the worse for wear.”
At that remark, Jerry winked at his friend. He rubbed his stomach sorrowfully. “Outside of being hungry, Doctor, I’d say—”
Mr. Kennedy broke in.
“Boys,” he said, glancing at his watch, “I promise you that in fifteen minutes you will be in my dining room sitting down to the best meal that was ever served up in Buffalo.”
And they were.