CHAPTER EIGHT

     In which the Doctor pays a Visit and receives no Fee; and I am
     obliged to work very hard to procure myself a Livelihood.

I did not forget my father’s injunctions, for I was very much frightened.  There was a doctor who lived half-way up Church Street, a short distance from Fisher’s Alley.  He was a little man with a large head sunk down between two broad shoulders.  His eyes were small and twinkling, his nose snubbed, his pate nearly bald; but on the sides of his head the hair was long and flowing.  But if his shoulders were broad the rest of his body was not in the same proportion—­for he narrowed as he descended, his hips being very small, and his legs as thin as those of a goat.  His real name was Todpoole, but the people invariably called him Tadpole, and he certainly in appearance somewhat reminded you of one.  He was a facetious little fellow, and, it was said, very clever in his profession.

“Dr. Tadpole,” cried I, out of breath with running, “come quick, my mother is very bad indeed.”

“What’s the matter?” said he, peering over a mortar in which he was rubbing up something with the pestle.  “External or internal?”

Although I did not know what he meant, I replied, “Both, doctor, and a great deal more besides.”

“That’s bad indeed,” replied Tadpole, still rubbing away.

“But you must come directly,” cried I.  “Come along—­quick!”

“Festina lente, good boy—­that’s Latin for hat and boots.  Tom, are my boots clean?”

“Ye’es, sir,” replied a carroty-haired boy, whom I knew well.

The doctor laid down his pestle, and taking his seat on a chair, began very leisurely to pull on his boots, while I stamped with impatience.

“Now do be quick, doctor, my mother will be dead.”

“Jack,” said the doctor, grinning, as he pulled on his second boot, “people don’t die so quick before the doctor comes—­it’s always afterward; however, I’m glad to see you are so fond of your mother.  Tom, is my hat brushed?”

“Ye’es, sir,” replied Tom, bringing the doctor’s hat.

“Now then, Jack, I’m all ready.  Tom, mind the shop, and don’t eat the stick-liquorice—­d’ye hear?”

“Ye’es, sir,” said Tom, with a grin from ear to ear.

The doctor followed me very quick, for he thought from my impatience that something serious must be the matter.  He walked up to my mother’s room, and I hastened to open the door; when, to my surprise, I found my mother standing before the glass arranging her hair.

“Well!” exclaimed my mother, “this is very pretty behavior—­forcing your way into a lady’s room.”

The doctor stared, and so did I. At last I exclaimed, “Well! father thought he’d killed her.”

“Yes,” cried my mother, “and he’s gone away with it on his conscience, that’s some comfort.  He won’t come back in a hurry; he thinks he has committed murder, the unfeeling brute!  Well, I’ve had my revenge.”