“Oh! doing capitally,” replied Peter, in a hoarse whisper, at the same time rising and entering the office, while he gently closed the door behind him. “I gave him a small dose of physic, which I think has done mm good. He’s sleeping like a top now.”
Mr. Kennedy frowned slightly, and made one or two remarks in reference to physic which were not calculated to gratify the ears of a physician.
“What did you give him?” he inquired abruptly.
“Only a little laudanum.”
“Only, indeed! it’s all trash together, and that’s the worst kind of trash you could have given him. Humph!” and the old gentleman jerked his shoulders testily.
“How much did yon give him?” said the senior clerk, who had entered the apartment with Harry a few minutes before.
“Not quite a wineglassful,” replied Peter, somewhat subdued.
“A what!” cried the father, starting from his chair as if he had received an electric shock, and rushing into the adjoining room, up and down which he raved in a state of distraction, being utterly ignorant of what should be done under the circumstances.
Poor Harry Somerville fell rather than leaped off his stool, and dashed into the bedroom, where old Mr. Kennedy was occupied in alternately heaping unutterable abuse on the head of Peter Mactavish, and imploring him to advise what was best to be done. But Peter knew not. He could only make one or two insane proposals to roll Charley about the floor, and see if that would do him any good; while Harry suggested in desperation that he should be hung by the heels, and perhaps it would run out!
Meanwhile the senior clerk seized his hat, with the intention of going in search of Tom Whyte, and rushed out at the door; which he had no sooner done than he found himself tightly embraced in the arms of that worthy, who happened to be entering at the moment, and who, in consequence of the sudden onset, was pinned up against the wall of the porch.