“This is certainly too bad, my boy,” said the physician.  “I’ll come at once and do what I can for him.”

He ran for a case of instruments and also for some medicines, and then followed Joe back to the boat.

“You act as if you were tired,” said the doctor, after he had watched Joe at the oars for several minutes.

“I am tired, sir—­I’ve been rowing a good deal to-day.  But I guess I can make it.”

“Let me row,” said the physician, and took the oars.  He was a fine oarsman, and the trip was made in half the time it would have taken Joe to cover the distance.

At the dock there was a lantern, used by Joe and the hermit when they went fishing at night.  This was lit, and the two hurried up the trail to the wreck of the cabin.

Hiram Bodley was resting where Joe had left him.  He was breathing with difficulty and did not at first recognize the doctor.

“Take it off!” he murmured.  “Take it off!  It is—­is crushing th—­the life out of—­of me!”

“Mr. Bodley—­Hiram, don’t you know me?” asked Doctor Gardner, kindly.

“Oh!  So it’s you?  I guess you can’t do much, doctor, can you?  I—­I’m done for!” And a spasm of pain crossed the sufferer’s face.

“While there is life there is hope,” answered the physician, noncommittally.  He recognized at once that Hiram Bodley’s condition was critical.

“He’ll get over it, won’t he?” questioned Joe, quickly.

The doctor did not answer, but turned to do what he could for the hurt man.  He felt of his chest and listened to his breathing, and then administered some medicine.

“His ankle is hurt, too,” said Joe.

“Never mind the ankle just now, Joe,” was the soft answer.

There was something in the tone that alarmed the boy and he caught the physician by the arm.

“Doctor, tell me the truth!” he cried.  “Is he is he going to die?”

“I am afraid so, my lad.  His ribs are crushed and one of them has stuck into his right lung.”

At these words the tears sprang into the boy’s eyes and it was all he could do to keep from crying outright.  Even though the old hermit had been rough in his ways, Joe thought a good deal of the man.

“Cannot you do something, doctor,” he pleaded.

“Not here.  We might do something in a hospital, but he would not survive the journey.  He is growing weaker every moment.  Be brave, my lad.  It is a terrible trial, I know, but you must remember that all things are for the best.”

Joe knelt beside the sufferer and took hold of his hand.  Hiram Bodley looked at him and then at the doctor.

“I—­I can’t live—­I know it,” he said hoarsely.  “Joe, stay by me till I die, won’t you?”

“Yes!” faltered the boy.  “Oh, this is awful!”

“I’m sorry to leave you so soon, Joe—­I—­I thought I’d be—­be able to do something for you some day.”

“You have done something for me, Uncle Hiram.”