"He would be a credit to the business," said old Mr. Wyatt, who always spoke of his business as if it were spelled with a capital B, and thought it the very finest business in the world for a man to be in.
One afternoon in March Doctor Pratt came hurriedly into the store and said to Mr. Wyatt:
"Put up half a dozen of these powders, will you, Wyatt? Here's the full prescription. Squire Shirley has got one of his acute attacks of neuralgia again, and my medicine-chest was empty. I'll call for them in fifteen minutes."
Then the overworked little doctor jumped into his gig, and was off like a flash.
"You'd better do it, John," said Mr. Wyatt. "I can't see in this poor light."
"Very well, sir," said John.
And, as he began to neatly fold the white slips of paper, he wondered if the squire were really as ill as Doctor Pratt pretended he was.
The good doctor was fond of making a fuss about trifles, to add to his own importance.
Margaret and Celia had been out driving that afternoon, for John had seen them from the drug-store windows.
If they had come home, they were probably rushing distracted about the house, trying all the possible and impossible remedies they had ever heard of to relieve him. John hoped they were not feeling too unhappy about it—the squire would doubtless be all right in a few hours.