him to the ground.

"Harry," Reade remarked dryly, "I'm not going to bother to thank you for
such a simple little thing as saving my life out yonder. I am well
aware that you had the time of your life in doing it."

"I might have had the time of my life," returned Harry, with an
imitation of his chum's calmness, "if there had been more excitement
about it. It was all rather dull, wasn't it, old chap?"

Smiling, both stepped inside. Then Tom's face became grave when he saw
that the rescued laborer had not yet recovered consciousness.

"Somewhere in the world," murmured Reade, as he dropped to one knee and
rested a finger-tip on the laborer's pulse, "there's someone--a woman,
or a child, or a white-haired old man--who wouldn't wish us to let this
man die. What have you men been doing for him?"

Before the answer could be given a honk sounded at the door. Then a
young doctor clad in white duck and carrying a three-fold medicine case,
stepped inside.

"Sucked down by the sand and hauled out again, Doc," Tom explained.

The physician looked closely at his patient and Harry drove out the men
who had no especial business there.

"A little pin-head of glonoin on his tongue for a beginning," decided
the physician, opening his case. From one of the vials he took a small
pellet, forcing it between the lips of the unconscious man. Then, with