"Well, well, Doctor!" Parson Richard's face was a warm and beaming lamp of welcome. "Come right in! Why didn't you telegraph? You know there's nobody I'd rather see than you.--Mary!" he called. "Get the Doctor a cup of tea--and let him have a piece of that caribou steak we've been keeping. It sure is good to see you, Doctor! Now we'll have a fine chance to talk, when you're rested. The mail-boat won't be along till to-morrow morning. There are so many things I want to tell you about and ask your advice." Grenfell had tugged off his rubber boots and sat in a cushioned chair with his feet luxuriously outstretched to the stove. Now that the hard pull afoot from cove to cove was over, it would be comparatively luxurious travel the rest of the way. He could probably have the full length of the table to sleep on, in the dining-saloon of the _Ethie_ when the dishes were cleared away. Since it was the beginning of the season, and southward-bound travel was slack, he might even get a berth to himself. But a frowsy-polled messenger just at that delicious moment of warmth and reverie threw open the front door without the ceremony of knocking, and a blast of wind swirled after him. Parson Richards in his thin, worn coat clasped himself like a cabman and shivered. "Shut the door, Tom! What is it?" The pale and agitated messenger could hardly stammer out the words. "It's--it's Abe Gould, sir!" "What has Abe Gould done now?" "He's shot himself in the leg!" "Well, well, is it as bad as all that?" asked the good man, his brow furrowing with anxiety. "We must come right off and see what we can do." "He's bleeding to death!" Parson Richards turned to Grenfell. "Now you stay right here, Doctor!" The Doctor was already hauling on his wet, stiff boots. "No, no," protested Grenfell, as if somebody had suggested a joy-ride and he didn't want to miss it. He turned to the boy. "Take me to him, Tom. How far is it?" "Five miles, sir," said the trembling lad. "Oh, do come, please, sir, and hurry up. He's bleeding to death." "Have you dogs?" "No, sir." "Can you get any?" "No, sir. All the good dogs is away." "Then we'll walk--or run," Grenfell smiled. He left the tea with the spoon in it, and did not even stop to thrust a bit of bread into his pocket. "How did it happen?" he said, as they started the jog-trot from the door. "He was cleanin' a gun, sir, and it went off and shot him in the leg." Not much more was said. Man and boy needed all the breath they had for that five-mile marathon over rocks and stumps and snow in the biting wind. Grenfell remembered the cross-country runs of the "harriers" at Oxford. Then, it was smooth going through fields and meadows and down the winding rural lanes. Then, he ran after nights of comfortable sleep, and with good fuel for the human machine. Now he had to make speed when he was hungry and after three broken nights of lying on damp sand. What a difference!