That was all that was said, and the car started off again, leaving grief and woe at Camp Britches.
Mr. Hartshorn lost no time in getting back to Boytown, though he was careful not to subject the suffering dog to the pain of rough riding. At Boytown he jumped out and telegraphed to Bridgeport to command the attendance of the best veterinary surgeon in the state. Then they sped on to Willowdale.
They took Rags out to the little building that was used as a dog hospital and made him as comfortable as they could. Mrs. Hartshorn herself brought him a dish of water which he lapped gratefully. He bore his pain heroically, but he was suffering terribly, and Tom Poultice thought best to administer a merciful opiate. Then he made a thorough examination.
"There's ribs broke," he said, "and I guess 'e's 'urt hinternal."
"Then there's nothing we can do?" asked Mr. Hartshorn.
Tom shook his head sorrowfully.
After awhile the effects of the drug wore off and Rags opened his eyes. Tom put his hand on the dog's heart and shook his head dubiously.
"I'm afraid 'e's going, sir," said he.
Mr. Hartshorn placed his arm about Jimmie's heaving shoulders and drew him toward the dog, who seemed to be begging for one last caress of his master's hand. Mrs. Hartshorn put her handkerchief to her eyes and hurried out.
The surgeon arrived soon after noon, but it was too late. Rags had died in Jimmie's arms.