With the permission to enter, the servant approached, handed the letter, and said that there were two bumpkins down stairs waiting for the answer.
“Show them up,” said the doctor.
Then he opened his letter, took out an envelope, read the first, stared, read again, rang the bell, and sent for Philip, first giving the servant an order in a low voice.
In the mean time the rough-looking farmer and the boy, neither of whom deserved to be called bumpkins, came in, and, having bowed as well as they knew how, sat down in a corner.
It was during recess in school hours that all this happened, and our idle friend, Master Philip, was fast asleep in the school-room. The rind of an orange, the cores of several apples, a grammar turned upside down, and some very sticky paper that had held candy, lay on the desk. In the midst of them was Philip’s head. His face was very sticky too, and glued fast to the extreme end of his nose was a paper pellet with which Kriss Luff had carefully ornamented it, to the tittering delight of half a dozen of his comrades. This and his sticky face had made it the duty of every fly in the room to invite each other to the spot to a mass meeting on business, to which was added a grand feast, and gymnastic exercises; so there they all were, as lively as you please—standing on their heads, hanging by one leg, whisking, and frisking, and eating, and buzzing, and grumbling, and fighting over the spoils, like hungry hawks or aldermen.
“Wake up, Master Philip!” cried the servant, giving him a push. “You’re wanted in the doctor’s study, and his face is as long as my arm. I guess he has got bad news for you. What’s that on the end of your nose?”
“Bad news,” repeated Philip, tearing off the paper pellet. “Was it worth while disturbing my nap for that? Go to Guinea!”
“But you must come—”
“Go to Guinea with your bad news!”
“Well, I will tell the doctor what you say.”