“He is dead!” he cried, “he is dead!”
His grief was so real that neither Peter nor Vicenti could suppose he was other than a friend, and without concerning himself as to how he had been so suddenly precipitated into the scene, Vicenti, as he poured brandy between Roddy’s teeth, commanded Pedro to rub and beat his body. Coughing and choking, Roddy signalized his return to consciousness by kicking the little man in the stomach.
“Ah, he lives!” cried Pedro. He again dropped upon his knees and, crossing himself, prayed his thanks.
Roddy fell into the bathrobe and into the steamer chair. Sighing luxuriously, he closed his eyes.
“Such a fool, to faint,” he murmured. “So ashamed. Made a bet—with harbor sharks. Bet them, could not get me. I win.” He opened his eyes and stared dully at Pedro. “Hello!” he said, “there’s good old Pedro. What you doing here, Pedro?”
The old man, now recovered from his fear on Roddy’s account, was in fresh alarm as to his own, and, glancing at Vicenti, made a movement to escape into the garden.
Roddy waved Vicenti and Peter into the hall.
“Go away,” he commanded. “He wants to talk to me.”
“But I must not leave you,” protested the doctor. “Now I am here as your physician, not as your guest.”
“A moment,” begged Roddy, “a moment.” His eyes closed and his head fell back. Pedro bent over him.