"Oh!" Helen had gasped, looking at the medical man in some wrath.
"Don't do it again—not for me," urged Ruth. "I am sorry I said anything about it."
"Oh, he isn't seriously injured by that," said the surgeon, holding up the needle. "But I do not think he is 'playing possum.'"
"It isn't possible!" exclaimed Helen, confidently.
"And how long must he lie here?" Ruth asked.
"Oh, in a fortnight he'll be as fine as a fiddle. Of course, he won't be able to use his arm much for several weeks. But the ribs will knit all right. Maybe he can find some light job——"
"We'll see about that," Helen interrupted.
"I can see you young ladies are much interested in him," chuckled the doctor. "And not entirely because he is a handsome, black-eyed rascal, eh?"
Ruth knew that old Tony Foyle, the gardener at Briarwood Hall, was interested in the lad. He had gone up to the ward to see Roberto several times, and came away enthusiastic in the Gypsy's praise.
"Sure," said Tony, to Ruth, "he's jist the bye after me hear-r-t. Herself would like him, he's that doomb!"