IT WOULD APPEAR that I was rapidly distinguishing myself, "getting on fast," as they say in Tannochbrae, yet perhaps my progress was a trifle too speedy, perhaps I was acquiring too high an opinion of myself. There were moments when, in the face of my cheerful cocksureness, Dr. Cameron stroked his chin reflectively and stole a dry look at me. But if there was amusement in his eye, he masked it and said nothing.
On the day before hogmanay, a fine crisping day with a cold sparkle in the air, I was working out a Fehling's test in the little room off the surgery. Known previously as "the back room," it had, in a rush of scientific zeal, been rechristened by me "the laboratory." This afternoon when Cameron indicated that he had a case to visit in Knoxhill, I had airily remarked:
"Righto! I'll tackle the tests in the lab."
Now, with my pipe between My teeth, I watched the blue liquid in the test tube bubble above the bunsen and slowly turn brick-red -- sugar, by Jove! Just as I'd suspected. Another smart piece of diagnosis.
I was interrupted by the opening of the door. Janet stood before me.
" William Duncan wants Dr. Cameron," she announced brusquely. "Young Duncan, the seedsman. Him that got married three years back and has the cottage on the Markinch road."
I looked up in annoyance -- Janet, confound her, was still far