Free Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor by Patrick Taylor Page A

them to his surgery he remembered how the last year had gone for Colin Brown. Cut hand Barry’d sutured last summer, ringworm of his scalp, greenstick fracture of his ulna and radius this year, and now this? The little lad was accident-prone. “Pop him up on the couch, Lenny”—Mister Brown deposited his son—“and have a pew.”
    Lenny took one of the hard-backed chairs and adopted the splay-legged posture common to all who sat there and on its twin. Patients had to brace themselves because years ago O’Reilly had sawn off a couple of inches from the front legs so patients would slide forward, be uncomfortable, and not be tempted to stay too long.
    “How’d you do your hoof, Colin?” O’Reilly asked.
    “You knows Donal Donnelly? Him that has the gru-dog Bluebird, like?”
    O’Reilly laughed. “Indeed I do. And I know his greyhound. I’ve made a few bob on her.”
    “Well, I was out at his place three days ago with Murphy, my new wee pup. We’d went out on the bus. Donal—” He glanced at his father as if expecting a reprimand. Small boys did not call adults by their Christian names. “He likes me to call him Donal, Daddy, honest to God.”
    “I’d call that impertinence. Weans should respect their bloody elders and betters, so they should.”
    “Och, come on, Daddy. Donal says it’s all right and he’s helping me train Murphy.”
    “I suppose.” Lenny shrugged. “All right, but you try calling me or your mammy that way.” He turned to O’Reilly. “I blame it all on that there American TV.”
    “Train Murphy? That’s very decent of him,” O’Reilly said. “Donal’s a good man with dogs.”
    “Aye, he is that, and I’m helping him with his dog too, so I am.” O’Reilly heard the pride in the boy’s voice. “He’s got all kinds of plans for her.” Colin dropped a wink and for a moment O’Reilly could have sworn he was looking at Donal Donnelly. He knew Donal was planning on doing a bit of “flapping” at an unregistered track, and as O’Reilly remembered it, Donal had said owners’ kids often presented the dogs to the stewards. Since Donal’s own child was far too young to help him with his schemes , it looked as if Donal had found a suitable kid for whatever he was planning. “And he says he’s mentioned it til youse, Doctor, but I’ve to keep my trap shut with everyone else.” The wink again. “There’s never nobody out at Dun Bwee to see me and him together with the dog.”
    O’Reilly chuckled and said, “Crafty bugg—” and cut himself off. Not in front of children. He wondered how much Lenny and Connie Brown knew about the dog scheme? “And you and Connie don’t mind, Lenny? Colin’s not a bit young to be working with racing greyhounds?”
    “Not at all, Doc,” he said with a laugh. “Kids do it all the time. And Donal’s a sound man. We all know he’s a bit of a schemer, but there’s no real harm in him. Him and me has a wee understanding about this. I’m helping a bit too—and if a bookie loses a few bob, you’ll hear no weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth round here. Colin’s not going to get hurt and he has a new interest. He’s certainly doing a great job with Murphy—with Donal’s help. You should see the wee pup sit when he’s told to.”
    O’Reilly shrugged. It was true youngsters were often involved with the training of racing dogs and horses, and if it was all right with Lenny and Connie Brown then O’Reilly could wonder all he wanted about the exact nature of the upcoming plot, but for now could afford to turn a blind eye. “So what happened to your foot?” he said.
    “It was a dead brill day and there was dew on the grass so I took my shoes and socks off for til run through it.” He grinned. “Feels lovely on your bare feet, so it does.” His grin fled. “But there was something sharp and I cut my foot. Miss MacAteer, I mean Missus Donnelly, was wheeker, so she was. She cleaned it, put on some iodine—it stung like blue