“But take me to Gregory.”

If we hadn’t been so perfectly bursting with thankfulness and so tired of shouting and the cold and the whole hideous place, we should have wondered how on earth he knew Greg’s name, because neither of us had mentioned it.  But we didn’t think of it then, and just snatched his hands and pulled him over the rocks, trying to tell him a little how glad we were to see him.

When he saw Greg, his face grew quite different—­very sorry, and not twinkly at all and he went down on his knees (he couldn’t have stood up in the back of the cave) and he said: 

“Poor old man!” And then, “I wonder who had the worst night of it?”

We said, “Greg, of course.”  But our man said, “I wonder.”  Then he changed again, and instead of being all sorry and gentle, he got quite commanding and very quick.

“Chris, you stay here,” he said.  “Gerald, come with me,—­and here, put this on.”

He pulled off his gray flannel coat and tossed it to Jerry, and Jerry did put it on and ran after him, tucking up the sleeves.  I saw them get into the dinghy and row back to the boat, and I said: 

“Oh, Gregs, we’re going home, we’re going home!” and we both cried a little.

They came back after what seemed a long time, and our man said: 

“While I’m fixing Gregory, you and Gerald tackle this.”

It was half a loaf of bread and some potted beef done up in oiled paper, and I’m sure Jerry ate the oiled paper, too.  I’d heard of starving people falling on food and rending it savagely, but I never knew exactly what rending was until we did it to the bread.  We gave some of it to Greg, too, while our man was fixing him.

I never saw any one before who could do things so fast and so gently.  He had nice, brown, quick hands, and he looked so grown up and useful.  He’d brought a roll of bandage stuff—­the kind with a blue wrapper that you keep in First Aid kits—­and a book that had “Coast Pilot Guide and Harbor Entrances of New England” on the cover.  I didn’t see what he could want that for, except on the boat, till he put it under Greg’s armpit and bandaged his arm across it to keep it steady.  The white waistcoat was in our man’s way, so he ripped it down the side and got it off entirely.

“I was an explorer,” Greg explained shakily.

“He was Baroo, the Madagascar cabin-boy,” Jerry said, gnawing the loaf, and I thought it seemed years ago that we had trekked across Wecanicut.

“I see,” said our man, in his nice, kind, reliable way, and then he said to Greg, “I didn’t hurt you much, did I, old fellow?”

And Greg shook his head, and said: 

“Thank you for coming.”

That was what we all felt, but none of us had put it so simply before.

“What’s this?” the man said, as he was gathering up the rest of the bandages.

It was the Simpson-thing, and it did look very funny by daylight, I must say,—­just a wob of blue flannel tied with a string.  I was going to explain, but Jerry said, with his mouth full: