And glad would Frank have been to respond to the best of his ability. But
the poor horse could not be considered first. Half under the sleigh, half
buried in the snow, lay the big foreman, to all appearance dead, the
blood flowing freely from an ugly gash in his forehead, where the fur cap
had failed to protect him entirely from the horse's hoof.

Frank sprang to his side, and with a tremendous effort turned him over
upon his back, and getting out his handkerchief, wiped the blood away
from his face. As he did so, the first awful thought of death gave way to
a feeling of hope. White and still as Johnston lay, his face was warm,
and he was surely breathing a little. Seizing a handful of snow, Frank
pressed it to the foreman's forehead, and cried to him as though he were
asleep,--

"Mr. Johnston, Mr. Johnston! What's the matter with you? Tell me, won't
you?"

For some minutes there was no sign of response. Then the injured man
stirred, gave a deep sigh followed by a groan, opened his eyes with a
look of dazed bewilderment, and put his hand up to his head, which was
evidently giving him intense pain.

"Oh, Mr. Johnston, I'm so glad! I was afraid you were dead!" exclaimed
Frank. "Can't I help you to get up?"

Turning upon his shoulder, the foreman made an effort to raise himself,
but at once sank back with a groan.

"I'm sore hurt, my lad," he said; "I can't stir. You'll have to get
help."