“Say, what'll I do? Jist got to have a doctor.”
“Ye'll no git him till to-morrow.”
“To-morrow?”
“How far oot are ye?”
“Twelve miles.”
“Twelve miles? Ye'll no get him a minute afore to-morrow noon.”
“Say, that young feller'll croak, sure. Away from home too. No friends. All his folks in Scotland.”
“Scotland, did ye say?” Something appeared to wake up in the little maid. “Look here, why don't ye get a doctor instead o' daunderin' your time here?”
“Git a doctor?” echoed Sam in vast surprise. “And ain't I tryin' to git a doctor? Where'll I git a doctor?”
“Go to the hospital, ye gawk, and ask for Dr. Turnbull, and tell him the young lad is a stranger and that his folk are in Scotland. Hoots, ye gomeril, be off noo, an' the puir lad wantin' ye. Come, I'll pit ye on yer way.” The maid by her speech was obviously excited.