"Why do you want to know where he is?" replied Mark, looking sly.
"However, as you can't stop him now, I'll tell you. He is just about
this time sewing up Briggs's coat-sleeves, putting copperas into his
water jug, and powdered galls on his towel, and making various other
little returns for this morning's favour."
"I dislike practical jokes."
"So do I; especially when they come in the form of a black dose. Sit
down, old boy, and we'll have a game at cribbage."
In a few minutes Tom came in--"Here's a good riddance. The poisoner
has fabricated his pilgrim's staff, to speak scientifically, and
perambulated his calcareous strata."
"What!"
"Cut his stick, and walked his chalks; and is off to London."
"Poor boy," said the Doctor, much distressed.
"Don't cry, daddy; you can't bring him back again. He's been gone
these four hours. I went to his room, at Bolus's, about a little
business, and saw at once that he had packed up, and carried off all
he could. And, looking about, I found a letter directed to his father.
So to his father I took it; and really I was sorry for the poor
people. I left them all crying in chorus."
"I must go to them at once;" and up rose the Doctor.
"He's not worth the trouble you take for him--the addle-headed,
ill-tempered coxcomb," said Mark. "But it's just like your
soft-heartedness. Tom, sit down, and finish the game with me."
So vanished from Whitbury, with all his aspirations, poor John Briggs;
and save an occasional letter to his parents, telling them that he
was alive and well, no one heard anything of him for many a year.
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