“Very good, Mrs Pottles—ve-ery good,” said the doctor, noting down the articles he placed in his pocket, and thinking that, even if called upon for no further attendance, through the coming of some family doctor, he was safe of the amount in the porte-monnaie, for he considered that no gentleman would dream of taking that back.
“And you think he’ll get well, then, sir?” said Mrs Pottles.
“Ye-e-e-s—yes, with care, Mrs Pottles—with care. But I’ll ride over to my surgery now, and obtain a little medicine. I shall be back in an hour.”
Mrs Pottles curtsied him out, and then returned to seat herself by her injured visitor, looking with motherly admiration on his broad white forehead and thick golden beard, as she again compared him with her Tom, who got into that bit of trouble with the squire. But before the doctor had been gone an hour, the patient began to display sundry restless movements, ending by opening his eyes widely and fixing them upon the landlady.
“Who are you? and where am I?” he exclaimed. “Let me see, though—I recollect now: my horse came down with me. I don’t think I’m much hurt, though.”
“O, but you are, sir, and very badly, too. Mr Tiddson says you are to be very quiet.”
“Who the deuce is Mr Tiddson?” said the patient, trying to rise, but sinking back with a groan.
“Lawk a deary me, sir! I thought everybody know’d Mr Tiddson: he’s our doctor, and they do say as he’s very clever; but he ain’t in rheumatiz, for he never did me a bit o’ good.”
“Poor dad!” muttered the young man thoughtfully, and then aloud: “Give me a pen and ink and a sheet of paper.”
“But sewerly, sir, you’re not going to try to—”