d after him.

Parson Richards in his thin, worn coat clasped himself like a cabman
and shivered. "Shut the door, Tom! What is it?"

The pale and agitated messenger could hardly stammer out the words.

"It's--it's Abe Gould, sir!"

"What has Abe Gould done now?"

"He's shot himself in the leg!"

"Well, well, is it as bad as all that?" asked the good man, his brow
furrowing with anxiety. "We must come right off and see what we can
do."

"He's bleeding to death!"

Parson Richards turned to Grenfell. "Now you stay right here, Doctor!"

The Doctor was already hauling on his wet, stiff boots.

"No, no," protested Grenfell, as if somebody had suggested a joy-ride
and he didn't want to miss it. He turned to the boy. "Take me to him,
Tom. How far is it?"

"Five miles, sir," said the trembling lad. "Oh, do come, please, sir,
and hurry up. He's bleeding to death."

"Have you dogs?"

"No, sir."

"Can you get any?"

"No, sir. All the good dogs is away."

"Then we'll walk--or run," Grenfell smiled.

He left the tea with the spoon in it, and did not even stop to thrust
a bit of bread into his pocket.

"How did it happen?" he said, as they started the jog-trot from the
door.

"He was cleanin' a gun, sir, and it went off and shot him in the leg."

Not much more was said. Man and boy needed all the breath they had for
that five-mile marathon over rocks and stumps and snow in the biting
wind. Grenfell remembered the cross-country runs of the "harriers" at
Oxford. Then, it was smooth going through fields and meadows and down
the winding rural lanes. Then, he ran after nights of comfortable
sleep, and with good fuel for the human machine. Now he had to make
speed when he was hungry and after three broken nights of lying on
damp sand. What a difference!

But the old zest of life and youth came flooding back to him--the
thought of the good he could do was a spur to keep him going at top
speed. Of old he ran for a ribbon, a medal or a cup. Now he was
running for a life. So often his errands, afoot or behind the dogs,
had that guerdon before them--and what prize of victory was more
valuable than that?

The boy had hard work keeping up with the man--the man who always had
kept himself in the pink of condition, whose frame never failed to
serve him when he called on it for a sudden, extra strain.

Grenfell remembered the war service of the young fellow he ran to
help. Abe Gould was but twenty. As a member of the Fi