The biggest of the pony carriages, accompanied by a band of gentlemen followers, now drew up in the glen, close to the gnarled old oak, by the stump of which the unlucky object of young Sir Mortimer’s gun practice was reclining.
Doctor Jolly inspected the vehicle to see whether all his directions had been obeyed; and, finding an old door laid across the seats, on which was a mattress and a bundle of pillows, he said, “That’s right, boys. Now bear a hand, and we’ll get him in.”
Supported by the brawny Aesculapius, and the offered arms of a score of others, Tom was lifted carefully into the chaise, and arranged comfortably amidst the pillows.
“Now,” said the doctor aloud, for the benefit of the company, apparently, but in reality, I think, for little Lizzie’s sake, “I want some lady to go along with us, to hold his head up, and carry the salts—I want smelling salts, too—or a vinaigrette, or something of that sort.”
All the ladies eagerly proffered help, but they were headed by Lady Inskip, who exclaimed—
“Here’s my darling child Carry, who is so anxious, and will be so glad to go:” a dozen fair hands also held up gorgeous little silver-topped vinaigrettes.
The doctor looked upon them all reflectively.
“Humph!” he said, sententiously, “I don’t think any of you will do. I shall take Miss Pringle here; she’s undertaken the case, and she may as well complete the cure.”
The campaigner looked fearfully disgusted. She turned to Pringle, B.A., and said, as if speaking confidentially to them, but for the express benefit of the doctor and Lizzie, as she spoke so that all might hear her—
“Of course I would not like to interfere with a medical man, Mr Pringle; but do you think it is quite correct for a young girl like your sister to go off in that way with a young man without any chaperone?”