"If I hit anything--good-by!" thought Tom
grimly. His hands were tense on the rim of the steering-wheel and
he was ready in an instant to reverse the motor as he sat there
straining his eyes to see through the curtain of mist that hung
over the lake. Now and then he glanced at the compass, to keep on
the right course, and from time to time he looked at Mr. Duncan.
The hunter was still unconscious.
How Tom accomplished that trip he hardly remembered afterward.
Through the fog he shot, expecting any moment to crash into some
other boat. He did pass a rowing craft in which sat a lone
fisherman. The lad was upon him in an instant, but a turn of the
wheel sent the ARROW safely past, and the startled fisherman,
whose frail craft was set to rocking violently by the swell from
the motor-boat, sent an objecting cry through the fog after Tom.
But the youth did not reply. On and on he raced, getting the last
atom of power from his motor.
He feared Mr. Duncan would be dead when he arrived, but when he
saw the dock of the sanitarium looming up out of the mist and shut
off the power to slowly run up to it, he placed his hand on the
wounded man's heart and found it still beating.
"He's alive, anyhow," thought the youth, and then his craft bumped
up against the bulkhead and a man in the boathouse on the dock was
sent on the run for a physician.
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