But Mike jumped out of the boat and swam off further up, turning back to me every few yards and yelping.
The dog evidently knew more than I did, so I followed him.
He led me to Jake's favourite clam-hunting ground.
As soon as I turned into that little cove, I saw my old helper lying on his back on the beach. I pulled in and hurried over to him.
The dog was there before me, his tongue out and his tail wagging as if to say:
"It is all right now."
The old man's eyes were wide open and glazed. He was blowing stentoriously through his closed mouth and a white ooze was on the corners of his lips. His body was tense and rigid, as if it had been frozen solid in the Arctic snows.
Poor old Jake! I knew what had seized him. I had seen something of the trouble before.
I lifted him gently and carried him into the boat, pushing off and rowing as quickly as possible for his home.
I got him into bed, but it was an hour before he showed any signs of consciousness, for I could do nothing for him,—only sit and watch.