“There—you silly child! I have been thinking the old mother has been out of everything long enough. Run away to your bedrooms; and before you go, lend me your biggest apron. You shall see that I will soon master the professional manner of washing breakfast-cups.”
CHAPTER XV.
POLLY’S DELIVERER.
“Max,” said Dr. Brenton from the hall door, “can you take a case for me this afternoon?” The Doctor’s eyes twinkled as he spoke, for his son’s professional aid furnished him with plenty of opportunity for the harmless jesting enjoyed by both. “Of course, I mean if your own private practice permits.”
“Thank you,” replied Max gravely; “I believe I’ve nothing serious on. My distinguished services are entirely at your disposal. Is it toothache or measles? I’m great at measles.”
“I’m sorry I can’t give you a turn with your speciality. It’s just a broken arm. But there was some chance of fever; and the boy’s mother is such a fool she can’t even take his temperature, or I might have told her to send me word how he did—”
“Pardon me, but who’s the boy?”
“Oh! why, young Brown, at Appleton Farm.”
Max whistled. “Hallo! that’s a six-mile trot.”
“Yes, and I don’t know how you’re to get there. I can’t spare the trap, for I’ve to go twice as far in the other direction.”
“Never mind ways and means,” said Max cheerily. “As Appleton isn’t out of our planet, I suppose I can reach it somehow.”