“But Sir Thomas will declare I am leading you into the evil paths of medicine and surgery.”
“Uncle won’t know. Do pull up; let me come.”
“Well,” said the doctor, smiling grimly, “I don’t see that it can do you any harm, Syd. Here, jump in.”
There was no need for a second consent. Almost before the horse could be stopped the boy had leaped lightly in, and with his face bright and eager once more, and the dark misty notions upon which he had been brooding gone clean away, he began chatting merrily to his old friend, whose rounds he had often gone.
“Yes, yes, Syd, that’s all very well,” said the doctor, making his whip-lash whistle through the air, “but you don’t know what a doctor’s life is. All very well driving here on a bright autumn morning to get an appetite for breakfast, but look at the long dark dismal rides I have at all times in the winter.”
“Well, they can’t be half so bad as keeping a watch in a storm right out at sea. Why, I’ve heard both father and Uncle Tom say that it’s awful sometimes.”
“Only sometimes, Syd.”
“Well, I can’t help it. I hate it, and I won’t go.”
“Must, my boy, must. Take it like a dose of my very particular. You know, Syd,” said the doctor, nudging the boy with his elbow; “that rich thick morning draught I gave you after a fever.”
“Oh, I say, don’t,” cried Sydney, with a wry face and a shudder; “it’s horrid. I declare, when I’m a doctor, I’ll never give any one such stuff.”