“Where are you?” cried the lad again.  “I’ve come to help you.  Where are you?”

He had lost what little fear he had had at first, that it might be one of the unscrupulous gang, and came to the conclusion that he might safely offer to help.

Once more the groan sounded and it was followed by a faint voice speaking: 

“Here I am, under the big oak tree.  Oh, whoever you are, help me quickly!  I’m bleeding to death!”

With the sound of the voice to guide him, Tom swung around.  The appeal had come from the left and, looking in that direction, he saw, through the mist, a large oak tree.  Leaping over the underbrush toward it he caught sight of the wounded man at its foot.  Beside him lay a gun and there was a wound in the man’s right arm.

“Who shot you?” cried Tom, hurrying to the side of the man.  “Was it some of those patent thieves?” Then, realizing that a stranger would know nothing of the men who had stolen the model, Tom prepared to change the form of his question.  But, before he had an opportunity to do this, the man, whose eyes were closed, opened them, and, as he got a better sight of his face, Tom uttered a cry.

“Why, it’s Mr. Duncan!” exclaimed the lad.  He had recognized the rich hunter, whom he had first met in the woods that spring shortly after Happy Harry, the tramp, had disabled Tom’s motor-cycle.  “Mr. Duncan,” the young inventor repeated, “how did you get shot?”

“Is that you, Tom Swift?” asked the gunner.  “Help me, please.  I must stop this bleeding in my arm.  I’ll tell you about it afterward.  Wind something around it tight—­your handkerchief will do.”

The man sighed weakly and his eyes closed again.  The lad saw the blood spurting from an ugly wound.

“I must make a tourniquet,” the youth exclaimed.  “That will check the bleeding until I can get him to a doctor.”

With Tom to think was to act.  He took out his knife and cut off Mr. Duncan’s sleeves below the injury, slashing through coat and shirts.  Then he saw that part of a charge of shot had torn away some of the large muscular development of the upper arm.  The hunter seemed to have fainted and the youth worked quickly.  Tying his handkerchief above the wound and inserting a small stone under the cloth, so that the pebble would press on the main artery, Tom put a stick in the handkerchief and began to twist it.  This had the effect of tightening the linen around the arm, and in a few seconds the lad was glad to see that the blood had stopped spurting out with every beat of the heart.  Giving the tourniquet a few more twists to completely stop the flow of blood, Tom fastened the stick-lever in place by a bit of string.

“That’s—­that’s better,” murmured Mr. Duncan.  “Now if you can go for a doctor—­” He had to pause for breath.

“I’ll not leave you here alone while I go for a doctor,” declared Tom.  “I have my motor-boat on the lake.  Do you think I could get you down to it and take you home?”