saw him holding up one paw helplessly, and looking at him with
wistful, imploring brown eyes, heard his pitiful whimpering cry for
aid, and never doubted his great distress and peril. Was Dash not
a fisherman? And fishermen, in Fishin' Jimmy's category, were
always true and trusty. So the old man without a second's
hesitation started down the steep, smooth decline to the rescue of
his friend.

We do not know just how or where in that terrible descent he fell.
To us who afterward saw the spot, and thought of the weak old man,
chilled by the storm, exhausted by his exertions, and yet
clambering down that precipitous cliff, made more slippery and
treacherous by the sleet and hail still falling, it seemed
impossible that he could have kept a foothold for an instant. Nor
am I sure that he expected to save himself, and Dash too. But he
tried. He was sadly hurt, I will not tell you of that.

Looking out from the hotel windows through the gathering darkness,
we who loved him--it was not a small group--saw a sorrowful sight.
Flickering lights thrown by the lanterns of the guides came through
the woods. Across the road, slowly, carefully, came strong men,
bearing on a rough hastily made litter of boughs the dear old man.
All that could have been done for the most distinguished guest, for
the dearest, best-beloved friend, was done for the gentle
fisherman. We, his friends, and proud to style ourselves thus,
were of different, widely separated lands, greatly varying creeds.
Some were nearly as old as the dying man, some in the prime of
manhood. There were youths and maidens and little children. But
through the night we watched together. The old Roman bishop,
whose calm, benign face we all know and love; the Churchman,