“Yes, Miss; saying all sorts o’ things about him. I shouldn’t like to tell you what.”
“And I should not like to hear, Bob,” said Rich gravely, as she went up-stairs; while after waiting till he heard a door close, Bob went cautiously into the surgery, crept to the door of the consulting-room, and listened to find out whether the doctor was there, and finding him absent, the boy went nimbly to the nest of drawers, opened one, and took out a pair of scissors before lifting a tin case from a corner—a case which looked like the holder of a map.
Bob removed the lid, drew out a roll of diachylon, and after cutting off a strip, he replaced the lid and scissors, and descended to the kitchen, where Elizabeth was peeling potatoes, and making the droning noise which she evidently believed to be a song.
“Look ye here!” cried the boy, triumphantly showing his bleeding knuckles.
Elizabeth uttered a faint cry.
“Why, you’ve been fighting!” she cried. “Oh, you bad wicked boy!”
“So are you,” cried Bob tauntingly: “you’d fight if the chaps served you as they did me, and said what they did about the doctor.”
“What did they say?” said the girl, giving her nose a rub as if to make it more plastic.
“You bathe them cuts nistely and put some sticking-plaister on, and I’ll tell you.”
Elizabeth set down the potato basin, wiped her hands, and after filling a tin bowl full of cold water, and fetching a towel, she tenderly bathed the boy’s dirty injured hands.