“No, no; give him time. Perhaps he will have been thinking so seriously about poor Harry, that for once he will be punctual.”
“Here he is!” cried Frank excitedly, as a thundering knock was heard at the front door, and he sprang up in his anxiety to go and open to their friend himself.
“No, no; don’t do that,” cried the doctor, smiling. “Sam would be disgusted.”
“Oh, I can’t stop to think about Sam’s feelings now,” cried Frank hurriedly.
“But you must keep cool. Look here, Frank, you are eighteen, and pretty well a man grown.”
“What has that to do with it?” said the lad impatiently.
“Only this,” said the doctor gravely; “we want manly action now, and you are as impatient as a boy of twelve.”
At that moment the professor entered the room, hooked stick in hand, and with his hat on, closely followed by the doctor’s man, who stood with one hand held out and a puzzled look on his face, staring at the visitor, whose dress looked shabby and aspect wild, the want of what fashionable young men term “well grooming”—to wit, shaving, hair-cutting, and shampooing—making him appear ten years older than his real age.
“Good morning, dear boys,” he said, shaking hands warmly, and without taking off his hat. “Well, what is it?”
He turned sharply upon Sam as he spoke.