The stage hands found a young doctor at the stage entrance who was waiting for a patient with a decoction of Am.  B’ty roses.  The doctor examined Hart carefully and laughed heartily.

“No headlines for you, Old Sport,” was his diagnosis.  “If it had been two inches to the left it would have undermined the carotid artery as far as the Red Front Drug Store in Flatbush and Back Again.  As it is, you just get the property man to bind it up with a flounce torn from any one of the girls’ Valenciennes and go home and get it dressed by the parlor-floor practitioner on your block, and you’ll be all right.  Excuse me; I’ve got a serious case outside to look after.”

After that, Bob Hart looked up and felt better.  And then to where he lay came Vincente, the Tramp Juggler, great in his line.  Vincente, a solemn man from Brattleboro, Vt., named Sam Griggs at home, sent toys and maple sugar home to two small daughters from every town he played.  Vincente had moved on the same circuits with Hart & Cherry, and was their peripatetic friend.

“Bob,” said Vincente in his serious way, “I’m glad it’s no worse.  The little lady is wild about you.”

“Who?” asked Hart.

“Cherry,” said the juggler.  “We didn’t know how bad you were hurt; and we kept her away.  It’s taking the manager and three girls to hold her.”

“It was an accident, of course,” said Hart.  “Cherry’s all right.  She wasn’t feeling in good trim or she couldn’t have done it.  There’s no hard feelings.  She’s strictly business.  The doctor says I’ll be on the job again in three days.  Don’t let her worry.”

“Man,” said Sam Griggs severely, puckering his old, smooth, lined face, “are you a chess automaton or a human pincushion?  Cherry’s crying her heart out for you—­calling ‘Bob, Bob,’ every second, with them holding her hands and keeping her from coming to you.”

“What’s the matter with her?” asked Hart, with wide-open eyes.  “The sketch’ll go on again in three days.  I’m not hurt bad, the doctor says.  She won’t lose out half a week’s salary.  I know it was an accident.  What’s the matter with her?”

“You seem to be blind, or a sort of a fool,” said Vincente.  “The girl loves you and is almost mad about your hurt.  What’s the matter with you?  Is she nothing to you?  I wish you could hear her call you.”

“Loves me?” asked Bob Hart, rising from the stack of scenery on which he lay.  “Cherry loves me?  Why, it’s impossible.”

“I wish you could see her and hear her,” said Griggs.

“But, man,” said Bob Hart, sitting up, “it’s impossible.  It’s impossible, I tell you.  I never dreamed of such a thing.”

“No human being,” said the Tramp Juggler, “could mistake it.  She’s wild for love of you.  How have you been so blind?”

“But, my God,” said Bob Hart, rising to his feet, “it’s too late.  It’s too late, I tell you, Sam; it’s too late.  It can’t be.  You must be wrong.  It’s impossible.  There’s some mistake.