“Mince Pye thought so too,” said the stocking, “for she cried out,—
“Oh! St. George, spare my life”—
“Then said old Father Christmas,—
“Is no Doctor to be found
“To cure Mince Pye, who is bleeding on the ground?”
“Was there any?” said Carl.
“There was somebody who called himself one. He came running right into the hall the minute old Father Christmas called for him, and you never saw such a queer little figure. He had an old black robe, and a black cap on his head, and a black patch over one eye.”
“What was that for?” said Carl.
“He had been curing himself, I suppose,” said the stocking. “And it would seem that he wasn’t satisfied with any of his features, for he had put on a long pasteboard nose painted red, and a pointed pasteboard chin. In his hand he carried a great basket of bottles. If one might believe his own account, he was a doctor worth having:—
“Oh! yes, there is a doctor to be found