“Which I beg your pardon, sir,” said the maid, hurriedly. “I was brushing it, and it flew out of my hand.”
“Ah! You should hold it tight,” said the doctor, picking up the hat, and looking at a dint in the crown. “It will require an operation to remove that depression of the brain-pan on the dura mater. I mean on the lining, eh, Vane?”
“Oh, I can soon put that right,” said the boy merrily, as he gave it a punch with his fist and restored the crown to its smooth dome-like shape.
“Yes,” said the doctor, “but you see we cannot do that with a man who has a fractured skull. Been out I see?” he continued, looking down at the lad’s discoloured, dust-stained boots.
“Oh, yes, uncle, I was out at six. Glorious morning. Found quite a basketful of young chanterelles.”
“Indeed? What have you done with them?”
“Been fighting Martha to get her to cook them.”
“And failed?” said the doctor quietly, as he peered into the basket, and turned over the soft, downy, red-cheeked peaches he had brought in.
“No, uncle,—won.”
“Now, you good people, it’s nearly half-past eight. Breakfast—breakfast. Bring in the ham, Eliza.”