“Perhaps—­maybe.  I’ll be stronger in a moment, now that the bleeding has stopped.  But not—­not home—­frighten my wife.  Take me to the sanitarium if you can—­sanitarium up the lake, a few miles from here.”

The unfortunate man, who had tried to sit upright, had to lean back against the tree again.  Tom understood what he meant in spite of the broken sentences.  Mr. Duncan did not want to be taken home in the condition he was then in, for fear of alarming his wife.  He wanted to be taken to the sanitarium, and Tom knew where this was, a well-known resort for the treatment of various diseases and surgical cases.  It was about five miles away and on the opposite shore of the lake.

“Water—­a drink!” murmured Mr. Duncan.

Seeing that his patient would be all right, for a few minutes at least, Tom hurried to his motor-boat, got a cup and, filling it with water from a jug he carried, he hastened with it to the hunter.  The fluid revived the man wonderfully and now that the bleeding had almost completely stopped, Mr. Duncan was much stronger.

“Do you think you can get to the boat, if I help you?” asked Tom.

“Yes, I believe so.  To think of meeting you again, and under such circumstances!  It is providential.”

“Did someone shoot you?” inquired Tom, who could not get out of his head the notion of the men who had once assaulted him.

“No, I shot myself,” answered Mr. Duncan as he got to his feet with Tom’s help.  “I was out with my gun, practicing just as I was that day when I met you in the woods.  I stooped down to crawl under a bush and the weapon went off, the muzzle being close against my arm.  I can’t understand how it happened.  I fell down and called for help.  Then I guess I must have fainted, but I came to when I heard you talking to me.  I shouldn’t have come out to-day as it is so wet, but I had some new shot shells I wished to try in order to test them before the hunting season.  But if I can get to the sanitarium, I will be well taken care of.  I know one of the doctors there.”

With Tom leading him and acting as a sort of support, the journey to the motor-boat was slowly made.  Making as comfortable a bed as possible out of the seat cushions, Tom assisted Mr. Duncan to it, and then starting the engine he sent his boat out from shore at half speed, as the fog was still thick and he did not want to run upon a rock.

“Do you know where the sanitarium is?” asked the wounded hunter.

“About,” answered Tom a little doubtfully, “but I’m afraid it’s going to be hard to locate it in this fog.”

“There’s a compass in my coat pocket,” said Mr. Duncan.  “Take it out and I’ll tell you how to steer.  You ought to carry a compass if you’re going to be a sailor.”

Tom was beginning to think so himself and wondered that he had not thought of it before.  He found the one the hunter had, and placing it on the seat near him, he carefully listened to the wounded man’s directions.  Tom easily comprehended and soon had the boat headed in the proper direction.  After that it was comparatively easy to keep on the right course, even in the fog.