"He's in the dispensin'-room," she said.
Ranny turned round. His features tilted slightly, compelled by something preposterous in the vision she had evoked.
"Whatever game is he playin' there?"
A faint flicker passed over his mother's face, as if it pleased her that he could talk in that way.
"Prescription," she said, and paused between her words to let it sink into him. "Makin' it up, he is. Old Mr. Beesley's heart mixture."
"My Hat!" said Ranny. He was impressed by the gravity of the situation.
There were all sorts of things, such as toothbrushes, patent medicines, babies' comforters, that Ranny's father with a Headache, or Ranny himself or his mother could be trusted to dispense at a moment's notice. But the drug strophanthus, prescribed for old Mr. Beesley, was not one of them. It was tricky stuff. He knew all about it; Mercier had told him. Whether it was to do Mr. Beesley good or not would depend on the precise degree and kind of Ranny's father's Headache.
"I've never known your father's Headache so bad as it is to-night," said Ranny's mother. "As for makin' up prescriptions, sufferin' as He is, He's not fit for it. He's not fit for it, Ranny."
That was as near as she could go.
"Of course he isn't."