Don thought of his Aunt Martha, alone in Pudding Lane.
All the while Glen had been tramping with long strides in the direction of the main part of Cambridge. Only once did he pause, and then it was to fill his pipe. At last he turned into a lane at the right of the road and approached a small house that overlooked the river. By that time dawn was well on the way.
Don observed two or three soldiers at the side of the house; they were cooking bacon over a small fire. “Hi, there!” shouted one. “I see you found your boy.”
“Yes, I found him,” replied Glen. “Where’s Dave Hollis?”
“He hasn’t come in yet.”
Glen carried Don into the house, spoke a few words to a woman who was preparing the morning meal and then, at her bidding, climbed the stairs.
By the time the rays of the sun were slanting down on the river Don was asleep deep within the feathery softness of a huge four-posted bed. The woman down-stairs had given him a delicious breakfast, and after he had eaten it the old trapper had rubbed his injured ankle with some potent, vile-smelling ointment that he said would cure anything from rheumatism to nose-bleed.
Near the middle of the afternoon Don awoke and a little to his astonishment saw his Uncle David sitting beside Glen at one side of the bed. “Uncle Dave!” he cried.
In a moment David Hollis had clasped his nephew’s hands in his own. “You’ve had a hard time, Donald, my boy,” he said. “How do you feel?”
“All right, except for my ankle; I gave it a bad twist when I fell.”