One Sunday forenoon, I was busy in the yard taking down my Saturday's washing from the clothes line, when Jake's dog, Mike, came tearing along the back path, making straight for me. That, in itself, was an unusual thing, for Mike never showed any violent affection for any one but Jake and he was more or less inclined to shun me altogether. Now, he stood in front of me and barked. I kept on with my work. He followed every step I took and kept on barking and yelping excitedly, looking up into my face. "What the dickens is the matter, old man?" I asked. When he saw me interested in him, he turned and ran down toward the beach. I did not follow. He came back and went through the same performance. Then he got angry and caught me by the foot of the overalls, trying to pull me in the direction he wanted. It struck me then that an old stager, like Mike was, would not misbehave himself as he was doing for the mere fun of it. I left my newly dried clothes and followed him. He ran on ahead and into my boat, getting up on the side and barking toward Jake's place. I became anxious. I pushed off hurriedly and rowed as hard as I could up the Bay in the direction of the cove. As I was turning in at Jake's landing, Mike grew excited again, running to the right side of the stern and whining. "What on earth can the dog mean?" I soliloquised, making up my mind to call in at the shack first, at any rate, and investigate. 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. At last he recognised me and tried to talk, but his speech was thick and nothing but a jabber of sounds. He cast his eyes down his right side as if to draw my attention to something. His eyes, somehow, seemed the only real live part of him. I examined him carefully and saw what he meant. Poor fellow! Tears ran down my cheeks in pity for him. His right side was numb and paralysed.