“Yer unco late, docther, this morning,” said one, in that rebukeful tone the northern Irishman never scruples to employ when he thinks he has just cause of complaint.
“It's na the way to heal folk to keep them waitin' twa hours at a closed door,” said another.
“I'se warrant he's gleb eneuch to call for his siller when it's due to him,” said a third.
“My gran'mither is just gane hame; she would na bide any longer for yer comin',” said a pert-looking girl, with a saucy toss of her head.
“It's na honest to take people's money and gie naething for it,” said an old white-haired man on crutches; “and I 'll just bring it before the board.”
Layton turned an angry look over the crowd, but never uttered a word. Pride alone would have prevented him from answering them, had he not the deeper motive that in his conflict with himself he took little heed of what they said.
“Where's the key, Sandy?” cried he, impatiently, to an old cripple who assisted him in the common work of the dispensary.
The man came close and whispered something secretly in his ear.
“And carried the key away, do you say?” asked Layton, eagerly.
“Just so, sir. There was anither wi' him,—a stranger,—and he was mair angry than his rev'rance, and said, 'What can ye expec'? Is it like that a man o' his habits could be entrusted with such a charge as this?”