“I’m not sure that he’s right about the advertisement, Johnny,” he said at length. “I lay awake last night in bed, making up the wording of it in my own mind. Perhaps he knows best, though.”
“I suppose he does, sir.”
And he went on again, up one street, and down another, deep in thought.
“Let’s see—we have nothing to do here to-day, have we, Johnny?”
“Except to get the pills made up. The mother said we were to be sure and not forget them.”
“Oh, ay. And that’s all the way down in Sidbury! Couldn’t we as well get them made up by a druggist nearer?”
“But it is the Sidbury druggist who holds the prescription.”
“What a bother! Well, lad, let us put our best leg foremost, for I want to catch the one-o’clock train, if I can.”
Barely had we reached Sidbury, when who should come swinging along the pavement but old Coney, in a rough white great-coat and top-boots. Not being market-day, we were surprised to see him.