ack to the land.

Three days later Dr. Grenfell reached the harbor where he was to board
the mail boat upon her arrival. He was wearied and stiff in his joints
after the hard overland hike with a heavy pack on his back, and
looking forward to rest and a good meal, he went directly to the home
of a mission clergyman living in the little village.

His welcome was hearty, as a welcome always is on this coast. The
clergyman showered him with kindnesses. A pot of steaming tea and an
appetizing meal was on the table in a jiffy. It was luxury after the
long days on the trail and Grenfell sat down with anticipation of keen
enjoyment.

At the moment that Grenfell seated himself the door opened
unceremoniously, and an excited fisherman burst into the room with the
exclamation:

"For God's sake, some one come! Come and save my brother's life! He's
bleeding to death!"

Dr. Grenfell learned in a few hurried inquiries that the man's
brother had accidentally shot his leg nearly off an hour before and
was already in a comatose condition from loss of blood. The family
lived five miles distant, and the only way to reach the cabin where
the wounded man lay was on foot.

Grenfell forgot all about the steaming tea, the good meal and rest. A
moment's delay might cost the man his life. Grenfell ran. Over that
five miles of broken country he ran as he had never run before, with
the half-frenzied fisherman leading the way.

The wounded man was a young fellow of twenty. Dr. Grenfell knew him
well. He was a hero of the world war. He had volunteered when a mere
boy, served bravely through four years of the terrible conflict and
though he had taken part in many of the great battles he had lived to
return to his home and his fishing.

"I never knew a better cure for stiffness than a splendid chance for
serving," said Grenfell in referring to that run from the missionary's
home to the fisherman's cottage. All his stiff joints and weary
muscles were forgotten as he ran.

When Dr. Grenfell entered the room where the man lay, he found the
young fisherman soaked with blood and sea water, lying stretched upon
a hard table. The remnant of his shattered leg rested upon a feather
pillow and was strung up to the ceiling in an effort to stop the flow
of blood. He was moaning, but was practically unconscious, and barely
alive.

The room was crowded to suffocation with weeping relatives and
sympathetic neighbors. Dr. Grenfell cleared it at once. Th