“That’s bad indeed,” replied Tadpole, still rubbing away.
“But you must come directly,” cried I. “Come along—quick!”
“Festina lente, good boy—that’s Latin for hat and boots. Tom, are my boots clean?”
“Ye’es, sir,” replied a carroty-headed boy, whom I knew well.
The doctor laid down his pestle, and taking his seat on a chair, began very leisurely to pull on his boots, whilst I stamped with impatience.
“Now, do be quick, doctor, my mother will be dead.”
“Jack,” said the doctor, grinning, as he pulled on his second boot, “people don’t die so quick before the doctor comes—it’s always afterwards:— however, I’m glad to see you are so fond of your mother. Tom, is my hat brushed?”
“Ye’es, sir,” replied Tom, bringing the doctor’s hat.
“Now then, Jack, I’m all ready. Tom, mind the shop, and don’t eat the stick-liquorice—d’ye hear?”
“Ye’es, sir,” said Tom, with a grin from ear to ear.