Japhet, in Search of a Father | Page 8

I quite kilt before I was cured?"
"It must have been some other shop," observed Mr Brookes. "You have made a mistake."
"Devil a bit of a mistake, except in selling me the plaister. Didn't I get it of a lad in this same shop?"
"Nobody sells things out of this shop without my knowledge."
The Irishman was puzzled--he looked round the shop. "Well, then, if this a'n't the shop, it was own sister to it."
"Timothy," called Mr Brookes.
"And sure enough there was a Timothy in the other shop, for I heard the boy call the other by the name; however, it's no matter, if it took off the skin, it also took away the thumbago, so the morning to you, Mr Pottykarry."
When the Irishman departed, we made our appearance. "Japhet, did you sell a plaister to an Irishman?"
"Yes--don't you recollect, last Saturday? and I gave you the shilling."
"Very true; but what did he ask for?"
"He asked for a plaister, but he was very tipsy. I showed him a blister, and he took it;" and then I looked at Timothy and laughed.
"You must not play such tricks," said Mr Brookes. "I see what you have been about--it was a joke to you, but not to him."
Mr Brookes, who imagined we had sold it to the Irishman out of fun, then gave us a very severe lecture, and threatened to acquaint Mr Cophagus, if ever we played such tricks again. Thus the affair blew over, and it made me very careful; and, as every day I knew more about medicines, I was soon able to mix them, so as to be of service to those who applied, and before eighteen months had expired, I was trusted with the mixing up all the prescriptions. At the end of that period Mr Brookes left us, and I took the whole of his department upon myself, giving great satisfaction to Mr Cophagus.
And now that I have announced my promotion, it will perhaps be as well that I give the reader some idea of my personal appearance, upon which I have hitherto been silent. I was thin, between fifteen and sixteen years old, very tall for my age, and of my figure I had no reason to be ashamed; a large beaming eye, with a slightly aquiline nose, a high forehead, fair in complexion, but with very dark hair. I was always what may be termed a remarkably clean-looking boy, from the peculiarity of my skin and complexion; my teeth were small, but were transparent, and I had a very deep dimple in my chin. Like all embryo apothecaries, I carried in my appearance, if not the look of wisdom, most certainly that of self-sufficiency, which does equally well with the world in general. My forehead was smooth, and very white, and my dark locks were combed back systematically, and with a regularity that said, as plainly as hair could do, "The owner of this does everything by prescription, measurement, and rule." With my long fingers I folded up the little packets, with an air as thoughtful and imposing as that of a minister who has just presented a protocol as interminable as unintelligible: and the look of solemn sagacity with which I poured out the contents of one vial into the other, would have well become the king's physician, when he watched the "lord's anointed" in articulo mortis.
As I followed up my saturnine avocation, I generally had an open book on the counter beside me; not a marble-covered dirty volume, from the Minerva press, or a half-bound, half-guinea's worth of fashionable trash, but a good, honest, heavy-looking, wisdom-implying book, horribly stuffed with epithet of drug; a book in which Latin words were redundant, and here and there were to be observed the crabbed characters of Greek. Altogether, with my book and my look, I cut such a truly medical appearance, that even the most guarded would not have hesitated to allow me the sole conduct of a whitlow, from inflammation to suppuration, and from suppuration to cure, or have refused to have confided to me the entire suppression of a gumboil. Such were my personal qualifications at the time that I was raised to the important office of dispenser of, I may say, life and death.
It will not surprise the reader when I tell him that I was much noticed by those who came to consult, or talk with, Mr Cophagus. "A very fine looking lad that, Mr Cophagus," an acquaintance would say. "Where did you get him--who is his father?"
"Father!" Mr Cophagus would reply, when they had gained the back parlour, but I could overhear him, "father, um--can't tell--love--concealment--child born--foundling hospital--put out--and so on."
This was constantly occurring, and the constant occurrence made me often reflect upon my condition, which otherwise I might, from the happy and even