and so did Chris, as they came within touch,
when the pony thrust forward its muzzle in response to its master's
extended hand, and then dropped its head and looked dejected in the
extreme, but blinked and whinnied again as it felt itself caressed.

"My old beauty! My brave old chap!" cried Chris huskily. "Oh, look
here, Ned! A broken arrow sticking in him still."

"Why, there's another on this side," cried Ned, "and a cut or a
scratch--no, it's too bad for a scratch--there in his flank."

"He's cut here too, in the forehead. Oh, Ned, however did he manage to
struggle back?"

"Oh, never mind about that. Let's have the heads of these arrows out
first thing."

"Yes; they must be ready to fester in the wounds. No, we mustn't do it;
they want cutting out with a proper knife. Look here, Ned; jump on your
pony and go and find father. He'd like to dress the wounds himself."

"No need," said Ned sharply, as a distant whistle rang out; "here they
come."

The whistle was answered, and a few minutes later the doctor and Wilton
came into sight, saw the lads, and joined them.

"What's the matter?" cried the doctor hurriedly. "Another pony hurt?--
What!--Impossible!--Oh, the poor beast! The brave fellow! I can hardly
believe it. Here, let's lead him gently across, and I'll see what I can
do. Has he just crawled back?"

"No, father; he must have come in the night," cried Chris. "We only
just found that he was here."

"We didn't look at them before we went off this morning," said Wilton.

"No, and I remember I reproached myself once for not doing so. But
there, we're giving all our sympathy to the pony. How are you, Chris,
my boy?"

"All right now, father," was the reply. "Seeing this poor fellow has
made me forget my bruises."

"But you are the better for your long sleep?"

"Yes, father; only a bit ashamed."

"Never mind that.--Tut, tut, tut!" continued the doctor. "Lame in the
off fore-foot. Some horrible wrench; cut in the flank. Why, he has
three arrows in him," continued the doctor, as he examined the poor
beast while it limped along patiently by their side.

"But he'll get better, father?" cried Chris excitedly.

"I hope so, my boy; but I am not a veterinary surgeon. Depend upon it,
though, that I shall do my best."

The pony followed them like a dog, holding out its muzzle to Chris from
time to time, and uttering as soon as he was caressed a piteous sigh.
But he did not wince till the