“Now, let me go first!” cried ’Phemie. “You’d both be scared stiff by my friend, Mr. Boneypart.”
“Your friend who?” cried Lyddy.
Harris began to laugh. “So you claim Napoleon as your friend; do you, Miss ’Phemie? What do you suppose old Spink thinks about him?”
’Phemie giggled as she ran ahead with the young man’s candle and closed the door of the skeleton case in the inner office.
“For the simple tests I have to make,” said Harris, as Lyddy’s lamp threw a mellow light into the room, “I see no reason why those old tubes won’t do. Yes! there’s about what I want on that bench.”
“But, oh! the dust!” sighed Lyddy, trying to find a clean place on which to set the lamp.
“Your grandfather must have been something of a chemist as well as a medical sharp,” observed Harris, gazing about. “I’m curious to look this place over.”
“We ought to ask Aunt Jane,” said Lyddy, doubtfully. “We really haven’t any business in here.”
“She’s never told us we shouldn’t come,” ’Phemie returned, quickly.
“Now you young ladies sit down and keep still,” commanded Harris, authoritatively, removing his coat and tying an apron around his waist–the apron being produced from his own pocket.