be!" said Jim to his dog, pointing to his
passengers, as he stood caressing him, with one foot on the land and the
other holding the boat to the shore. "There's the little chap that I've
brung to play with ye, an' there's the sick man that we've got to take
care on. Now don't ye make no row."

Turk looked up into his master's face, then surveyed the new comers with
a wag of his tail that had all the force of a welcome, and, when Harry
leaped on shore, he smelt him over, licked his hand, and accepted him as
a satisfactory companion.

Jim towed his boat around a point into a little cove where there was a
beach, and then drew it by a long, strong pull entirely out of the
water. Lifting Benedict and carrying him to his own cabin, he left him
in charge of Harry and the dog, while he went to make his bed in "Number
Ten." His arrangements completed, he transferred his patient to the
quarters prepared for him, where, upheld and pillowed by the sweetest
couch that weary body ever rested upon, he sank into slumber.

Harry and the dog became inseparable companions at once; and as it was
necessary for Jim to watch with Benedict during the night, he had no
difficulty in inducing the new friends to occupy his cabin together. The
dog understood his responsibility and the lad accepted his protector;
and when both had been bountifully fed they went to sleep side by side.

It was, however, a troubled night at Number Ten. The patient's
imagination had been excited, his frame had undergone a great fatigue,
and the fresh air, no less than the rain that had found its way to his
person through all his wrappings, on the previous night, had produced a
powerful impression upon his nervous system. It was not strange that the
morning found Jim unrefreshed, and his patient in a high, delirious
fever.

"Now's the time," said Jim to himself, "when a feller wants some sort o'
religion or a woman; an' I hain't got nothin' but a big dog an' a little
boy, an' no doctor nearer 'n forty mile."

Poor Jim! He did not know that the shock to which he had subjected the
enfeebled lunatic was precisely what was needed to rouse every effort of
nature to effect a cure. He could not measure the influence of the
subtle earth-currents that breathed over him. He did not know that there
was better medicine in the pure air, in the balsamic bed, in the broad
stillness, in the nourishing food and the careful nursing, than in all
the drugs of the world. He did not kno