Part 17 (2/2)
”Morton Elder!” cried his aunt, bustling in with deep concern in her voice, ”What's this I hear about you're having a sore throat?”
”Nothing, I hope,” said he cheerfully.
”Now, Morton”--Vivian showed new solicitude--”you know you have got a sore throat; Susie told me.”
”Well, I wish she'd hold her tongue,” he protested. ”It's nothing at all--be all right in a jiffy. No, I won't take any of your fixings, Auntie.”
”I want Dr. Bellair to look at it anyhow,” said his aunt, anxiously.
”She'll know if it's diphtheritic or anything. She's coming in.”
”She can just go out again,” he said with real annoyance. ”If there's anything I've no use for it's a woman doctor!”
”Oh hush, hus.h.!.+” cried Vivian, too late.
”Don't apologize,” said Dr. Bellair from her doorway. ”I'm not in the least offended. Indeed, I had rather surmised that that was your att.i.tude; I didn't come in to prescribe, but to find Mrs. Pettigrew.”
”Want me?” inquired the old lady from her doorway. ”Who's got a sore throat?”
”Morton has,” Vivian explained, ”and he won't let Aunt Rella--why where is she?”
Miss Elder had gone out as suddenly as she had entered.
”Camphor's good for sore throat,” Mrs. Pettigrew volunteered. ”Three or four drops on a piece of sugar. Is it the swelled kind, or the kind that smarts?”
”Oh--Halifax!” exclaimed Morton, disgustedly. ”It isn't _any_ kind. I haven't a sore throat.”
”Camphor's good for cold sores; you have one of them anyhow,” the old lady persisted, producing a little bottle and urging it upon Morton.
”Just keep it wet with camphor as often as you think of it, and it'll go away.”
Vivian looked on, interested and sympathetic, but Morton put his hand to his lip and backed away.
”If you ladies don't stop trying to doctor me, I'll clear out to-morrow, so there!”
This appalling threat was fortunately unheard by his aunt, who popped in again at this moment, dragging Dr. Hale with her. Dr. Bellair smiled quietly to herself.
”I wouldn't tell him what I wanted him for, or he wouldn't have come, I'm sure--doctors are so funny,” said Miss Elder, breathlessly, ”but here he is. Now, Dr. Hale, here's a foolish boy who won't listen to reason, and I'm real worried about him. I want you to look at his throat.”
Dr. Hale glanced briefly at Morton's angry face.
”The patient seems to be of age, Miss Elder; and, if you'll excuse me, does not seem to have authorized this call.”
”My affectionate family are bound to have me an invalid,” Morton explained. ”I'm in imminent danger of hot baths, cold presses, mustard plasters, aconite, belladonna and quinine--and if I can once reach my hat--”
He sidled to the door and fled in mock terror.
”Thank you for your good intentions, Miss Elder,” Dr. Hale remarked drily. ”You can bring water to the horse, but you can't make him drink it, you see.”
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