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.
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