Tim opened his eyes—he had lost consciousness, momentarily, from the pain.
“Damn!” he observed succinctly. “That'll make it the very devil of a time before I can get back to France!” Then, to Sara, who could be heard murmuring something about writing to Elisabeth: “Not much, old thing, you don't! She'd fuss herself, no end. Just write—and say—it's a sprain.” And he promptly fainted again.
They got him back to Sunnyside while he was still unconscious, and when he returned to an intelligent understanding of material matters, he found himself in bed, with a hump-like excrescence in front of him keeping the weight of the bedclothes from the injured limb.
“Did I faint?” he asked morosely.
“Yes. Lucky you did, too,” responded Sara cheerfully. “Doctor Dick rigged your ankle up all nice and comfy without your being any the wiser.”
“Fainted—like a girl—over a broken ankle, my hat!”—with immense scorn.
Sara was hard put to it not to laugh outright at his face of disgust.
“You might remember that you're not strong yet,” she suggested soothingly.
They talked for a little, and presently Tim, whose eyelids had been blinking somnolently for some time, gave vent to an unmistakable yawn.
“I'm—I'm confoundedly sleepy,” he murmured apologetically.