Bob went up-stairs, and the place being empty he shut himself up in the surgery, to indulge in a morbid taste for trying flavour or odour of everything in the place, and fortunately so far without fatal or even dangerous results.
After a time he had a fit, and prescribed for himself Syrup Aurantii—so much in cold water, leaving himself in imagination in the chair while he mixed the medicine, and going back to the chair to take it. After recovering from his imaginary fit, he spelled over a number of the Lancet, dwelling long over in account of an operation of a novel kind; and ending by standing upon a chair and carefully noting the contents of the doctor’s glass jars of preparations, which he turned round and round till he was tired, and came down, to finish the morning by helping himself to about a teaspoonful of chlorate of potassium, which he placed in his trousers-pocket, not from any intention of taking it to purify his blood, but to drop in pinches in the kitchen fire and startle Elizabeth.
“Teach her not to say things agen my old woman,” said Bob. “Just as if she can help being old!”
Chapter Five.
A Sister’s Trial.
“Don’t ask questions. There’s the money; take it. You don’t think I stole it, do you?”
“Stole it, Hendon dear? No, of course. How can you talk so?”
“Then, why don’t you take it?”