“Bide a wee; I’ll manage,” he cried.
“Doctor,” he added, disarranging all the medico’s hair with his hand—Sandy’s legs were under the mahogany, so he could not speedily retaliate—“Sandy, mon, I’ll manage. It’ll be a vera judeecious arrangement.”
Then he was off, and presently back, all smiles and rejoicing:
“Come on, Allan, dear boy,” he cried. “We’re going, both of us, and Seth and one man, and we’re going to carry a plank to help us across the ice. Finish your breakfast, baby Ralph. I wouldn’t disturb myself for the world if I were you.”
“I don’t mean to,” said Ralph, helping himself to more toast and marmalade.
“What are you grinning at now?” asked Rory of the surgeon.
“To think,” said Sandy, laughing outright, “that our poor little boy Rory couldn’t be trusted on the ice without Seth and a plank. Ha, ha, ha! my conscience!”
“Doctor,” said Rory.
“Well?” said the doctor.
“Whustle,” cried Rory, making a face.