.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 44952
   :PG.Title: Sixpenny Pieces
   :PG.Released: 2014-02-17
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: \A. Neil Lyons
   :DC.Title: Sixpenny Pieces
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1909
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

===============
SIXPENNY PIECES
===============

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      *SIXPENNY*
      \:\: *PIECES* \:\:

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      *BY \A. NEIL LYONS*

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      *LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD*
      *NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY: MCMIX*

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      WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH

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      *BY THE SAME AUTHOR*

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      Arthur's.  With a Cover-design
      by \W. Graham Robertson.
      Crown 8vo.  Second Edition.

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      TO
      \K. \L. \S.

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   *CONTENTS*

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I.  `Introductory`_
II.  `Concerning James`_
III.  `First Impressions`_
IV.  `Sixpences`_
V.  `The Hypocrites`_
VI.  `Conatus`_
VII.  `On The Properties of Water`_
VIII.  `The Way of the East`_
IX.  `The 'Pothecary`_
X.  `The Mother's Trade Union`_
XI.  `The Diagnosis`_
XII.  `The Tuskers`_
XIII.  `Art Lovers`_
XIV.  `Three Babies`_
XV.  `Ingrates`_
XVI.  `Baffin's Find`_
XVII.  `Mr. West's Wife`_
XVIII.  `Three Dialogues`_
XIX.  `Curing the Curer`_
XX.  `Milk!`_
XXI.  `Two Patients`_
XXII.  `Lost!`_
XXIII.  `The Survivor`_
XXIV.  `More of Prudence`_
XXV.  `A Talk with James`_
XXVI.  `The April Barge`_
XXVII.  `The Case of Mrs. Roper`_
XXVIII.  `The Black Hat`_
XXIX.  `On Earning Sixpence`_
XXX.  `Dialogue with a Bride`_
XXXI.  `An Interlude`_
XXXII.  `Low Finance`_
XXXIII.  `The Mothers' Meeting`_
XXXIV.  `The Woes of Wilfered`_
XXXV.  `Still More of Prudence`_
XXXVI.  `A Birthday Party`_
XXXVII.  `The Moral Sense`_
XXXVIII.  `Love and Hate`_
XXXIX.  `On a Dead Policeman`_
XL.  `Mrs. Gluckstein`_
XLI.  `Of Human Kindness`_
XLII.  `The Last`_

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.. _`INTRODUCTORY`:

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   *SIXPENNY PIECES*

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   I

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   INTRODUCTORY

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I was a beautiful evening in the month of
May.

The stars were shining.

The beautiful moon looked beautifully
forth from her beautiful throne.

A nightingale greeted her with a beautiful
sonnet.  England—our England—bore upon
her bosom the beautiful perfume of woodruff
and the wild clover.  In Bovingdon Street,
London, E., a lover was kicking his sweetheart.

That was the beginning of this book.  I
happened to be standing at Mr. Wilson's
coffee stall.  And I heard the screaming.
And I saw some shadows moving briskly,
like the funny silhouettes on the blind at a
pantomime.  And some of us laughed and
some of us whined and one of us blew a
whistle.  And the constabulary arrived, and
with their coming the tumult died.  And
they brought the girl to the light of the
stall, and her face was bruised and swollen
and she lost her voice.  But before doing so
she was able to assure us that "'E done it
in drink."  "'E" was removed under escort.

They did not take her to a hospital,
because there was a round little man at the
stall who prevented them from doing so.
"Lemme alone," the lady had remarked,
upon regaining speech.  "Don't you worry
me.  I'm all right, I am.  I got my doctor
'ere: this genelman in the top 'at.  Ain't
that right, sir?  You are my doctor, ain't
you?"

"That is so," said the round little man,
"I'm her doctor.  Shift your dam carcases
and give the woman some air."

"There you are," gasped the woman,
"what did I tell you?  He *is* my doctor.  I
got 'is confinement card in me pocket this
minute."

"She can't stop 'ere you know, Dr. Brink,"
expostulated a constable.

"I'll take her home," said the round man.

"Be a lot better in the 'orspital," muttered
the constable.

"I'm obliged for your opinion, officer;
but I think I'll have my own way *this*
time.  Catch hold of her middle, will you,
Sonny?"

It was your servant who had the honour
to be addressed as Sonny, and he hastened
to do the little round man's bidding.  When
we had got the lady into a perpendicular
attitude, the doctor put his arm about her,
and, anticipating the little man's commands,
your servant did the same.  And so we led
her from the stall, all the cut-throats of
Bovingdon Street following reverently behind
us.  Happily our march was not a long one,
for the patient lived in Smith Street; and
Smith Street, as everybody knows, is the
second turning past the African Chief
beer-house in Bovingdon Street.  Short as the
journey was, however, I could have wished
it to be shorter: for the cut-throats pressed
us close, breathing thickly about our ears;
and the woman weighed heavy, having no
manner of use for her legs and being stupid
in the head.  She only spoke once during
the walk, and that was to say, in a drowsy
sort of monotone: "'E done it—in drink."

We came at last to 13, Smith Street, and
the fact that eighteen eager faces were
already distributed among the six small
windows of that dwelling-house removed my
latent fears that our arrival would disturb
"the neighbours."  The owners of these
faces were entirely mute, save for one, an
elderly woman, who, in a loud wail, made
certain representations to Providence in
regard to one 'Erry Barber, whom I understood
to be the lusty gallant primarily responsible
for this adventure.  Having repeated
these commands a great number of times,
and having exercised undoubted talent in
describing 'Erry and 'Erry's parentage, the
old woman proceeded to chronicle her views
respecting a vast number of alien subjects.
At last this lady had the great misfortune to
"catch her breath," at which the doctor
cut in.

"Stop that beastly noise!" he shouted,
"and shut the window, and put on a
respectable garment, and come downstairs and
let us in."

The lady looked benignly down upon us.

"Go' bless ye, doctor," she exclaimed,
"you are a good man.  But you didn't
ought to talk like that to *me*.  I lorst a son
in the Bower war."

At that moment the door was opened by
some other dweller in the house.  And the
doctor and his patient entered in.  Not
knowing the neighbourhood and not liking
it, and being also of a curious nature, I
awaited the doctor's return.  I had not long
to wait.  He came out very soon, and we
walked away together into clearer air.  And
the doctor spoke.

"It is a deuced queer thing," he said, "that
a man can't stop for five minutes at a dam
coffee stall without some fool or other finding
work for him.  I'll never go to that stall
again.  I'll be damned if I will.  I ought to
have got home half an hour ago."

"Yes," I said—I believe that vaguely I
sought to comfort him—"and she *would*
have been better off in the infirmary?"

"Don't talk foolishness, young man,"
replied the round little doctor.  "You are
talking dam nonsense.  Infirmary—pooh!  With
a baby almost due, and with all those bruises!
They would have made a complete job of it
there.  They would have kept her there for
the lying-in and all—a six weeks' job at
least."

"And would that matter?"

"Matter?  Of course it would.  That man
will be out in a week, even if our local
humorist doesn't let him off with a fine.
What's to become of that poor girl's home,
do you suppose, while she's in and he's out?"

"Would he touch it?"

"Do you live in this neighbourhood, sir?"  The
doctor wore a visage as of painful
wonder.

I explained that I didn't.

The doctor's wonder grew.  "What under
heaven are you doing in the purlieus of Mile
End Road at two in the morning, then?" he
demanded.

"Sir," I said, with grand simplicity, "you
behold in me the representative of an
inexpensive but celebrated newspaper.  I am
come here, by editorial instruction, to seek
out Blossom, the chimney-sweep philosopher,
whose opinion on horse-racing we are
anxious to secure for our magazine page.
But Blossom has evaporated.  Mrs. Blossom
vainly seeketh him.  So does the other
woman's husband.  I have prepared a full
and detailed report of this disgraceful scandal,
which will appear, together with photographs,
on our sermon page next Sunday.  And as,
when I communicated by telephone with my
editor, he was so kind as to relieve me from
further intellectual activity for the day, and
as I do not know Mile End, and as I——"

"Never mind the 'ases,'" interpolated the
doctor.  "My name is Brink.  I like your
politics."

"I have no politics," I explained.  "But
... I hate my job."

"That is what I mean," replied the doctor.
"... So you want me to send this woman to
the infirmary, where they will feed her well
and keep her warm between white sheets,
and give her copies of the *Nineteenth
Century* to read.  But during that time, you
see, her 'man' and some other woman would
be pawning her home.  She knows this, and
I know it.  So I took her home.  If she has
concussion, of course, she'll *have* to go; but
short of that we can get her through it at
home.  There's a boilerman's wife in the
room above who has rudimentary graces.
Infirmary, forsooth!  Why, even the
respectable married ones would rather pawn their
wedding rings than 'lie in' on a public bed.
A woman at home is a woman at home, even
though she talks through the mouth of a
midwife; but when a woman is in hospital
William's wages and the marble ornaments
are both at William's mercy.  And so the
women stop at home and call in
Brink—Brink—the sixpenny doctor."

I laughed.  "Is it *really* sixpence—your
fee, I mean?"

"It is *really* sixpence.  And my income is
twelve hundred a year.  I used to have a
respectable half-guinea practice in Norfolk,
and then I was doing eight hundred, and
spending it all on dog-carts and
dinner-parties.  Here I have no expenses at all,
except in the matter of top-hats; they insist
upon top-hats.  And I like the place: I am
charmed with the people.  Do you like
smoked salmon and cold duck?"

"I do."

"Then come inside, and have some.  And
have a look at James.  James will do you
good.  James is unique.  And I can give
you a bed, and I can tell you stories, and
show you some fun, too—sideways sort of
fun—at sixpence a time."

"Sixpenny pieces," I suggested, as his
key turned in the lock.





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.. _`CONCERNING JAMES`:

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   II


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   CONCERNING JAMES

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I have confused impressions of that first
visit to the house of Dr. Brink.  It was so
late when we entered, you see, and all within
the house was strange and unexpected, and
the duck and Burgundy were very peace-provoking.

The sort of house which I had expected
the doctor to inhabit was not at all the sort
of house he really lived in.  I had, perhaps,
no very definite ideas at all.  One knows
the *ordinary* doctor's house: a cool and
studious consulting-room, having leathern
armchairs and a telephone and a stethoscope
and some framed engravings after Landseer
and a silver goblet which he won at tennis
in the eighties and a case of text-books and
a mule canary and claret plush curtains and
the centenary edition of Sir Walter Scott.
And a very quiet and lofty waiting-room,
containing all the illustrated papers for last
April and a reading-glass and a stereoscope,
besides a decanter of water and three clean
tumblers.

One knows that sort of house, I say, and
likewise the gentle, murmuring press of
sufferers which lays siege to it.  But the
spot-cash practitioners of Mile End Road
are rather strange and foreign to us.  We do
not go into their little, weird
consulting-hatches nor sweat amid the tumult of
their vulgar patrons.  We can imagine
what the thing is like: and there are
some of us perhaps who imagine truthfully.
I didn't.

My imagination did not run to Japanese
colour prints and pastel studies, and neatly
framed examples of the art of Mr. Nicholson.
And yet these things were hung upon the
white distempered walls of Dr. Brink's
infirmary.  I figured the tumult as gazing
speechlessly upon these curious East End
substitutes for Landseer.  "What do they
think of them?" I asked the doctor.

"They are much amused," said he.  We
were standing before a pastel when he
spoke—a thing of heavy shadows with purple
deeps, wherefrom there stood forth dimly
the figures of a crippled man and an old
sick woman, and the face of a child with
brazen eyes.  "Out Patients" was the title
of this drawing, and it preached of a divine
torture.  "They are much amused," said the
doctor.

But this was in the morning.  That night
we did not look at pictures, nor at patients.
We sat above and supped off duck and
Burgundy.  I saw confusedly—it was a
pleasant confusion—that there were many
good pictures in the house, and that books
were everywhere—everywhere.  And the
bottle was a full one.  And we spoke of
olives and the Norfolk women.

Then he took me to a little brown room
with more books in it, and a bedstead which
was of oak and carven.

"Good-night," said the doctor.  "You
shall see old James to-morrow.  You will
like old James.  Good-night."

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When morning came, I had the pleasure
of viewing Bovingdon Street in the sunshine.

It was a queer sort of sunshine, to be
sure—weak and uncertain and rather dirty:
a sort of actinic heel-taps.  But I remember
thinking that any less shabby form of
sunshine would have carried with it an air of
disrespect, as though it had come forth to
mock at the gloom and ugliness of the thing
beneath it.  A gloomier, sillier, dirtier street
than Bovingdon Street I do not wish to see.
But I have seen such all the same.  Indeed,
I have looked upon some filth and squalor
beside which Bovingdon Street is as the
Mall compared to Worship Street.  So much
I must admit in common fairness.

There was at least no actual squalor in
the street on which I looked: only dirt and
gloom and ugliness.  The houses which
faced me were comparatively new, and they
were small and neat, and of a square and
thick-set build.  But there happened to be
one hundred and sixty of them, each exactly
like its neighbour, and having each before
its doorway a small pale or enclosure
containing—cinders and rags and pieces of
paper and battered cans and smudgy babies
and hungry cats.  And there was grime on
all the windows, and in front of them a very
vulgar man was selling bloaters, loudly.
Also, in all that soot-brown avenue there
was one white thing: a hawthorn tree in
bloom, which shuddered gently in the
fog-shine like a discontented spectre.  And those
ridiculous fat houses stood there stoutly,
shoulder to shoulder, one hundred and sixty
of them, eyeing her with dolour.  And a
voice beneath my window made speech,
saying loudly: "You give me my daughter's
combings back, ye thievin' slut."  So I left
the window and lighted a pipe and crawled
back into bed.

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And then, as the story writers say, a strange
thing happened.  There came a sudden tap
upon my bedroom door, and without further
warning there entered in a—a lady.  She
was rather a young lady, to be sure, some
fifteen years of age, perhaps.  And she
was wearing a petticoat—a striped petticoat—and
her hair was dressed into innumerable
pigtails, and her top was covered by—by
a—a—don't they call it a camisole?  And she
bade me "Good-morning," very calmly.

"G—G—Good-morning!" I responded.
I hoped to heaven that I was not blushing.

"Don't trouble to scream," said the lady,
in an off-hand manner.  "It is all right: I
have come for my stockings."

"Really," I began, a little hotly, "*I* haven't
ta——"  And then I stopped.  A horrible
thought presented itself to me.

Doctor Brink no doubt combined the
practice of alienism with that of spot-cash
cures.  And this lady was doubtless an
"inmate."  And——

The voice of the inmate interrupted me.
"It's quite all right, really it is.  I'm not
accusing you of theft or anything else.  I
only want to get my stockings from this
cupboard.  Mrs. Gomm, our 'char,' she
mixes things up so.  And I want a brown
pair, because this is my day for being
respectable with my aunt at Ealing, and you
wear your brown dress and a neat toque
for that sort of thing; and where the devil
that woman has—oh, here we are.  Want
darning, of course.  Damn!"

Swearing seemed to be a widespread
habit in this unusual household.  I
coughed—the sort of cough you use when children
are present and your deaf Uncle David is
reviving his recollections of India in the
sixties.

"I say," protested my visitor, "you really
needn't look so worried.  It's all right, really.
This is my room, you know; theoretically,
you know.  Only I always sleep in the
bathroom (we've got a bath-room, you know,
and there's a lid to it, and I sleep on that),
and I always sleep there because it's a long
way from Fatty, and I can't hear him raving
when the night-bell rings.  And Fatty——"

"Pardon me," I cried, "but who is Fatty?"

The lady looked at me a little blankly.
"Who is Fatty?" she repeated, but then
broke off, a light as of understanding in her
eye.  "I was forgetting," she said.  "Of
course, you wouldn't know.  Well, it is
like this, you see.  This house belongs
to a man called Brink, who is a doctor
and——"

"I know all that," I assured her.

"Oh, you do know all about it, then,"
quoth she; "I wasn't sure, you know.  Most
of the strange people that I find in my
bedroom if I happen to look in for anything
don't know anything at all about us.  Fatty
finds them—gathers them up, you know—and
brings them home and feeds them and
converts them to Socialism and puts them
to bed, and when they wake up in the
morning they have to have it all explained
to them.  Fatty is Dr. Brink, you know.
One always calls him Fatty, because his
proper names are Theobald Henry de la
Rue, and you simply haven't time in the
mumps season.  You're a reformer, I
suppose?  What do you reform?"

"Reform!" I cried, "what do *I* reform?
Why, I don't reform at all.  I've never
reformed a blue-bottle."

"But surely you're against something or
other.  You *must* be against something!"

"Oh, well," I answered, "if it comes to
that, I—I——"

"Just so," assented the lady.  "Don't go
into particulars.  They *all* particularise.  I
could stand much from you—more than
usual, I mean—because you are clean-shaven,
and that is such a change from most
of the other powerful thinkers whom one
finds here in the morning.  They are staunch,
you know, and sound on the Education
Question and all that sort of thing, and they
are a useful hobby for Fatty to take up;
but they're rather old and solemn, as a rule,
you know.  And they *do* go into details!
Now *you* seem rather jolly; and when you've
got up and we've been properly introduced
and I've boiled your egg, I'll show you my
white rats.  Do you like white rats?"

"I adore them," said your servant.

"Good.  And, I say, I hope you won't
mind, but you'll have to toilet yourself in
the kitchen sink.  Our 'char's' such a rotter,
you know, and I see she hasn't filled your
jug—she never does—and she doesn't come
till ten, and I've got to finish dressing, and
Fatty's out on a call, and there's all the
breakfast to get; and when you've done
your toilet *do* you mind just putting a match
to the gas stove and sticking a kettle on?
Thanks awfully." ... My fair guest flung
herself upon the door.  All of her, save
a corner of the stripy petticoat, had
disappeared, when I put in *the* important question.

"I say," I cried, "who *are* you?"

"Me," cried a voice from behind the
door—"me?  Oh ... I am James."





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.. _`FIRST IMPRESSIONS`:

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   III


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   FIRST IMPRESSIONS

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With breakfast came the opportunity of
renewing my *entente* with James.  That young
lady appeared now fully clothed in the
conventional garments of her age, even to a
pinafore with seven pockets.

"What do you put in all those pockets?"
I inquired, as she tripped in with the bacon.

"Most of them," she answered, "contain
white rats....  I thought," she added,
eyeing me closely, as I drifted in a thoughtful
manner to the far end of the table, "I thought
you *adored* white rats?"

"That is quite so," I responded.  "The
dear, dumb creatures!  I—I idolise them."

"*Why* do you idolise them?" demanded
James, putting on a very subtile smile.

"Because," I answered, "because they—they
are so dumb and—and so white."

"Then why do you shudder at them?"

I explained my attitude towards white
rats.  "It is not fear which makes me
seem to shrink," I pointed out, "only a
sense of—of—well, you see, the white rats
which I have previously adored were
confined within a cage, which contained a sort
of treadmill, which they worked with their
feet, and you watched this talented display
from a distance, and wondered if they never
grew tired.  But——"

"Those wheel-cages," interpolated James,
"are the most damnable contrivances which
were ever invented.  Whenever I see one I
buy it and burn it.  That is one reason why
I happen to have so many rats.  I think that
the people who make those things ought to
be devoured by locusts.  I——"

"You also have the spirit of reform, then?"
I ventured to suggest.

"Reform!" echoed James, with a bitter
laugh.  "Because one hates to see things
tortured?  *I* call it common decency.  All
of Fatty's friends have got some wonderful
new name for being decent.  One of Fatty's
most particular friends is a rather awful man
named Boag, and he is a public accountant,
and he wears spats, and he calls himself a
Conative Meliorist; and if you ask him why,
he says it is because he believes in making
people happy.  'Conative Meliorist'!  Think
of it!  Sounds so expensive, doesn't it?  He
pronounces his name in two jerks—Bo—ag,
and it always reminds me of Asheg, Mesheg,
and Abednedgo....  He looks exactly like
them, too!  'Conative Meliorist'!  It is much
easier to call yourself just James."

"Why *do* you call yourself 'James,' by the way?"

"Let us stick to the point," responded
James.  "It is so like a man to dodge your
arguments when he can't upset them.  What
was the point?"

"Conative Meliorism," I suggested.

"That was merely a passing reference.
There was something else which reminded
me of Mr. Boag.  Something which reminded
me of something which reminded me of
something which remind—I remember now.
We were talking of white rats.  You were
pretending not to hate them.  You were
trying to deceive me.  Your pretendings
don't take me in the leastest bit, so you may
just as well chuck them up.  Be honest.  Be
a man.  Stand up like an English gentleman.
Say what you feel about them.  Do
not fear to shock my virgin ears because——"

"How old are you, James?" I hoped that
my simple, honest, obvious wonder would
disarm the question of its point.

The lady gazed upon me with an air of
bland surprise.  "That is a question," she
answered, with great gravity, "which I never
discuss.  It isn't fair to Fatty.  *Do* sit down.
Was it sugar and no milk, you said; or milk
and no sugar?  And will you have hysterics
if Sunshine joins the circle?  He always
breakfasts with his mother.  Oh, de minna,
tinna, tooney Sunshine, den."

Sunshine was a rat—the whitest and
roundest and fattest of them all.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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I, nevertheless, contrived to breakfast well.
Sunshine's mistress was thoughtful enough
to curtail the radius of that minna, tinna,
tooney animal's accustomed beat: with the
result that I was able to keep my seat.  And
his mistress stayed him with dainties and
prattled cheerfully upon a variety of strange
subjects.  It was no good waiting breakfast
for Fatty, she explained, because Fatty's
"call" was a "midder."

"And what in heaven's name," I
demanded, "may a 'midder' be?"

"That," explained James, "is what Fatty
calls an 'obstetric term.'  When people have
babies, you know.  Do you know what
'B.B.A.' means?"

I didn't.

"That's another trade expression.  It stands
for 'Born Before Arrival,' and it's what you
always pray for, because it saves a lot of
time, and they have to pay you just the
same.  Our fee is half a guinea, and you can
pay it by instalments if you like.  But if it
is your first baby we charge a guinea, because
your husband is a lot more trouble to us, and
he is not always sober.  And whatever the
fee, we do our very best for you, and pride
ourselves on our results; but as we get about
seven 'midders' every day, we are not able
to make so many compliments as we did in
Norfolk....  Fatty calls it his Automatic
Delivery System."

The girl, as she spoke, looked very "nice"
and English: she was feeding Sunshine
from a fork.  I began to wonder whether it
was actually possible that she did not realise
the horrible impropriety of her conversation.
As an Englishman, I knew my duty.  That
duty was to represent to her in suitable terms
that her conduct was abandoned and impure.
But the religious duty of causing maidens to
blush is one which is best performed by the
Righteous, who perform it so well and often....
I concealed my horror.

And the maiden prattled on.  "Some of
them are fearfully grateful.  Do you see that
old stuffed owl in the dusty case, there?
That's a present—to me.  It only came
yesterday, and it's a token of gratitude from
a Jewish lady in the fish trade.  This is her
sixth, and the first five were all girls.  She
used to deal with our opposition—Dr. McWhite—but
when the fifth female came
along they changed over to Fatty, and this
stuffed owl is what he calls a tribute to
professional ability.  And there's Fatty's key in
the door.  Seize his bacon, will you—it's in
the fender."

I was rather annoyed with Dr. Brink
for returning just then.  I had mapped out
a series of leading questions designed to
elicit James's age and identity.

But when the little hungry man came in,
I felt that these questions were unimportant
and could wait.  It was interesting enough
to help that busy scientist to mustard, and to
hear him curse the Liberal Government
with his mouth full of bacon, and to watch
the quiet motherliness of James.

"Regular multitude in the waiting-room,"
announced the doctor, as he gulped his
coffee.  "Got to get back there quick.
You'd better pop down with me, youngster,
and get a squint at it all."

"You sit on the gas-stove in the kitchen,"
explained James.  "There's a window just
above it which gives on to the consulting-room,
and it's painted on the kitchen side,
and I've scratched a little squint-hole in the
paint....  I often go down there when the
drunks come in—the *funny* drunks, I mean.
Sometimes they are not funny.  And Mr. Boag,
the Conative Meliorist, sits there by
the hour.  He calls it 'supping with misery.'"

"You'll spend the day with us, I
suppose?" suggested the little doctor.  And,
as it was Saturday, and therefore a holiday
in my trade, I supposed that I would.

And then they introduced me to the gas-stove.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SIXPENCES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   IV


.. class:: center large bold

   SIXPENCES

.. vspace:: 2

I sat on the gas-stove, with James beside
me, and we applied our eyes in turn to the
squint-hole and beheld the Doctor earning
sixpences.

*Item:* A young gentleman with the
hiccoughs.  Was feeling suicidal.  How was
his appetite?  Shocking, shocking!
Digestion in good order?  On the contrary, it
was shocking bad.  What sort of nights?
Shocking!  Spirits low?  Shocking low.
Did his head ache?  Shockingly.  Food
taste dull?  Absolutely shocking.  Young
gentleman receives some advice on the
subject of alcoholic excess and a bottle of
water, fortified by harmless colouring matter.
Young gentleman departs.

*Item:* Tired woman with baby in
convulsions.  Baby's dietary discussed.  Woman
indignant.  "Why," she declares, "'e 'as
the very same as us!"  Baby dismissed with
a powder.

*Item:* Slow-spoken man with a jellied
thumb.  "Door jamb," he explains.  "Want
a stifficut.  Works at the Brewery.  Want
another stifficut for the Insurance.  'Urry
up.  'Ow much?  Good-day."

Then an old woman came in—a very old
woman, with rosy cheeks and a clean apron,
and querulous, childish eyes.

"I want some morphium," she says, "to
soothe meself down.  Not that I got a right
to look for much—at my age."

The doctor became jocular.  "What!"
he cried.  "A fine woman like you?
Morphia for you?  What?  With those cheeks?
*What?*"

"I ain't got no happetite," said the old
woman.  "And there's shooting pains in
me 'ead, and I don't sleep proper, and I
seems to feel lonesome, and I wants some
morphium to soothe meself down with."

"What's your favourite dinner dish?"
inquired our inconsequent wag of a doctor.

"I ain't got no favourites," replied the
woman.  "I'm old, I am; what should I
do with favourites at my age?  I want
some morphium to soothe meself down."

"What *is* your age—sixty?"

"I shall never see sixty again," said the
woman.  "Nor I shan't see seventy.  Nor
eighty.  I'm old."

"And you mean to tell me," cried the
doctor, with sudden heat, "that you do not
care for tripe?  Good tripe, mind you—tender
tripe, very well boiled, with just a
flavouring of onions?"

"And if I did," protested the woman,
"who's to cook it for me?  There's so
many young women to get the favours now
I find, and me so old.  Can't I have a little
morphium, Doctor: the brown mixture, ye
know?  To soothe meself down with."

"The young ones get the favouring, eh?
Do you live with a young woman?"

"I lives with two on 'em—worse luck."

"Daughters?"

"Daughters?  Me?  No, sir.  I'm a
maiden, I am....  It's me landlady what I
lives with."

"Doesn't she cook for you?  I've got
some tripe in the kitchen, and I thought—but,
of course, if it can't be cooked,
why——  What's all this about?"

The rosy-cheeked old maiden was crying,
"I'm too old," she sobbed; "it's the young
ones gets the favouring."

"Oh," said the doctor, "and so your
landlady is unkind?"

"Not unkind, sir," said the woman, gently
swallowing the doctor's bait; "she's a good
woman, as they go, only I'm growed so old,
and a young woman has come into our house,
and I'm sorry to say, doctor, as she has
'leniated my landlady away from me.  She
is a young woman."

"Can't you get some other lodgings?"
suggested the doctor.  "You oughtn t to
be neglected."

"I do not say I ham neglected, Doctor.
That would be huntrue.  I am not blaming
anybody.  I honly say I'm old.  And this
new lodger she's 'leniated my landlady away
from me.  She's young, you see.  Well
under seventy, she is."

They're all alike, these minxes," said
the doctor, with a wistful smile.

"I got nothing to say agin her, mind you,"
protested the old woman.  "Not agin neether.
My landlady, she was very good and kind
to me at one time; but now this young one
'ave come, and I ham sorry to say as she
'ave 'leniated my landlady away from me."

"I shouldn't fret about the matter,
anyhow," suggested Dr. Brink.  "You'll make
friends with your landlady soon again; I'm
sure you will."

"We was never bad friends," explained
the woman.  "We're friends to-day, on'y
not *sich* friends, if you understand me.  This
new lodger, you see, she has 'leniated my
landlady away from me.  That's what it is.
She 'ave leniated her.  She's a *young* woman,
you see! ... Will you give me some
morphium, Doctor; just to soothe meself down
with?"

The maiden got her morphia.

The maiden was succeeded by another
woman—a mother.  She carried a bundle,
partly occupied by a baby.  She was a lewd
and dirty woman, and engaged my friend in
the following dialogue.

FEMALE: I warra soothin' surrup for my
baby yere.  'E's fidgety.

DOCTOR: How fidgety?

FEMALE: Well: look at the little blighter.
'E's got the blasted jumps.

DOCTOR: Of course he's got the jumps.
He's dying.

FEMALE: Warra mean—dyin'?

DOCTOR: I mean that he will soon be dead.

FEMALE: Whaffor?

DOCTOR: Because he's starving.

FEMALE: Warra mean—starving?

DOCTOR: I mean that he is squirming mad
from hunger.  Breast fed, of course?

FEMALE: Warra mean, ye bleatin' image?

DOCTOR: Breast fed, of course?

FEMALE: Ye bleatin' image!  'Oo the 'ell
you think *you* are?

DOCTOR: Breast fed, of course?

FEMALE (*weeping wildly*): Me starve my
baby?  Ow, ow, ow, ow!

DOCTOR: Breast fed, of course?

FEMALE: Ow, ow—why cert'nly 'e's breast
fed!  'Ow else d'ye think a pore workin'
woman's goin' ter manage?  And 'im not
five months old.  And one of yere own
deliveries.  Cert'nly e's breast fed.

DOCTOR: That's the trouble, you see.  No
baby can be nourished on gin and stout.
He's starving, I tell you.

FEMALE: And I tell ye it's a dirty lie.
I'm for ever feedin' 'im.  'E's for ever
worryin'.  Sich a happetite this little
beggar's got.  Warra mean, me starve 'im?
Warra mean, yere gin and beer?  I suckle
the little dear meself.

DOCTOR: And what do you feed yourself on?

FEMALE: That's my business, ain't it?

DOCTOR: It's my business, too.  If you
want that baby to live, you'd best look sharp
and feed him.  Get sober.  I can't cure the
baby.  The only person who can cure him
is yourself.  And to do that you must leave
off getting drunk.  You must eat some
decent food.  You're living on alcohol at
present.  No baby can be nourished on gin
and stout.

FEMALE: S'elp me Gawd, Doctor—s'elp
me Gawd, young man, if I die this minute—s'elp
me Gawd I ain't 'ad only two 'arf-pints
since yisterday.  I take them a-purpose for
the boy's own sake, young man.  'E don't
seem to fancy it, some'ow, unless I 'as me
drop o' stout.  See what I mean, Doctor?
I takes what I do for the baby's own sake:
'e *will* 'ave it, bless 'is little 'eart.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE HYPOCRITES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   V


.. class:: center large bold

   THE HYPOCRITES

.. vspace:: 2

During a lull in the sixpenny battle
Dr. Brink held parley with me, standing on the
seat of his official chair and peering through
the top of his consulting-room window.
"Are you comfortable on that gas-stove?"
inquired the learned doctor.

"The gas-stove," I said, "is very well;
but—er—comfort, you know, is not exactly
the word.  It—it—I say, you know, that
woman with the dying baby was rather
quaint."

"This," said the doctor, "is a quaint sort
of gas-stove.  We often roast chaps on it.
Do you like beer?"

"Not much," I answered, "but my
brother plays the flute."

"Because," pursued my host, ignoring
this effort at repartee, "my consultations are
nearly over for this morning, and then I am
going my round, and that is a short one, and
I shall be back here by one o'clock, and after
that I propose to brew some beer.  Would
you like to help me?"

The proposition was not without a certain
suddenness, but I was getting used to this
household, and did not betray my surprise.
Also, I accepted the invitation.

"Righto!  Come about yourself?  How's
your appetite?" said the doctor, in one
breath, as he disappeared from the window
and readdressed himself to business.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



And in the afternoon we duly did this
brewing.

"One brews in Baffin's studio," explained
the doctor, with a slight yawn, as he led
me through the kitchen door into his little
yard, all bright with tulips.  "Baffin's studio
is really our washhouse, you know."

"And who is Baffin?" I demanded.

"One of the Leicestershire Baffins,"
replied the doctor gravely.  "His mother
was a Pillbrook.  His uncle——"

I begged the doctor to restrain his gift
of humour.  "Where is Baffin?  What is
he?" I demanded again.

"Oh," said the doctor, "if you are really
commonplace enough to be interested in a
man himself when you ask, "who he is,"
I will expound this Baffin to you.  He has
red hair and freckles, and he is one of the
Leicestershire Baffins, and he hates the
Leicestershire Baffins, and he is a youth of
great talents, who is supposed to live here,
but at present he is reforming the Royal
Academy, and reviving poster art in
England.  And he never puts anything where
he will find it again, or shuts a drawer or
folds his clothes.  He is a genius.
And——  Look out, I say, that's Baffin's bag."

It *was* Baffin's bag, and it assisted your
servant in the performance of a complicated
somersault.  Baffin had left it on his doorstep.

Baffin's doorstep led into quite the wildest
washhouse which I have ever viewed.
Baffin's bed, consisting of three brown
blankets strewn oddly upon a damaged
ottoman, occupied most of the foreground, and
behind this object lay, in some confusion,
waistcoats, and easels, and broken chairs, and
bas-reliefs, and unclean collars, and
portfolios, and fencing sticks, and a rusty helm
and vizor out of Wardour Street.  And the
walls were covered with crayon drawings
and printed posters, all of them attached to
the plaster by means of one corner and a
pin, and all of them being curled at the
edges and tanned with exposure.  It was
noticeable, also, that a bust of the Blessed
Virgin, after Cinquevalli, was situated within
the font or cavity of the copper.  We
removed this object in order to make room for
the beer.

I observed also that Mr. Baffin's studio
was beautified by one mural design of a
permanent nature.  This consisted of a sum
in compound arithmetic, performed by means
of charcoal.  I studied this inscription with
interest.  There was

::

   £3  5
      20
   -----
  £65  0

.. vspace:: 2

A fairly obvious, if unconventional, piece
of mathematical deduction.  We were then
faced with a new problem, somewhat more
mysterious in its workings.  Thus:—

::

         65
         98
         --
     13)163(12   Carry 3
         13
         --
          33
          26
          --
           7
         12
         ----
         12/7
         ----
   Total £1 12s. 7d.

.. vspace:: 2

I must own to being strangely touched
by this pathetic effort on the part of Baffin
to solve the mysteries of an alien art.  I
also reflected that the result of his
calculations, though wayward and inscrutable in
itself, was probably touched with a profound
and poignant importance to Baffin.  It
represented cigarettes and dinners—£1 12s. 7d. worth,
more or less.  A fellow-feeling made
me fear it must be less.  There was a
hurried, insignificant, shamefaced look about
the figures wherewith Baffin had recorded
his results.  They indubitably pointed to a
debit balance.

Presently Mr. Baffin himself strolled in,
and we were presented to each other, and
he helped us boil the beer.  He helped us
in intention rather than effect, for Mr. Baffin
possessed a thoughtful, halting, introspective
mind, and, as Dr. Brink had observed, he
did not put things where they could be
found again.  Also, he was rather wrapped
up in me.  "I say, you know," he had
observed, "I wish you would sit for me.  You
would make a splendid model for my oyster
seller.  I am doing the New Cut by night,
you know."

"Are you in love?" demanded Mr. Baffin,
a little later.  I said, "Of course."  "Will
you bring her round, then?" continued
Mr. Baffin.  "And to what end?" I said.  "I
am collecting lovers," explained this talented
and candid youth.  "I want that rapt look.
Paid models are no use at all, you know.
Amateurs aren't much better, of course,
because they all have prejudices against
yearning in public.  But I am hoping to find
the exception in time, and you have a natural
sort of expression—rather—and so I
thought—I give you tea, you know, and drinks
when there are any.  All you have to do
is to sit on the throne and embrace.  I hope
she's dark.  Next Tuesday would be a good day."

I promised Mr. Baffin that I would submit
his proposition to all the ladies with whom I
happened to be in love.

And then the liquid in the copper arrived
at a perfect temperature and we became all
silent in the pursuit of brewing.  And James
came in to help us, observing that the
attractions of brewing transcended those of her
aunt at Ealing, and that she had postponed
her visit to that respectable lady.  And some
of the doctor's friends looked in, including
Mr. Pudsey, the lyric poet, and Boag
(conative meliorist), who invited me to dine with
him, and Jenny Brown, the painter, and
Miss Blick, of the Women's Social and
Political Union, and Mr. Webb, the local
curate, who explained to me, with an air of
bold originality, that Christianity and
Socialism had points in common.  And we partook
of tea from Breton mugs, and were secretly
amused at each other.  And in the midst of
it all a gas engine arrived at the surgery
door, and said "Honk!  Honk!"  And the
doctor rushed out and came back looking sad.

"It is Lady Budge, the new member's
wife," he said with dolour; "and she has
come in her motor to discuss the poor.
James, old girl, I am awfully sorry, but you
have got to be respectable.  Her ladyship is
waiting upstairs now."

A period of wild excitement followed,
while we all helped James to comb her hair
and climb into the speckled pinafore of a
blameless life.  "I will do my best," said
James; "but I am sure I shall forget and call
you 'Fatty.'  Is it father or papa to-day?"

"Her ladyship," responded the doctor,
"is, I think, the kind of ladyship who would
prefer papa.  Let her do all the good she
wants to.  Mention that we've got a curate
here.  Webb and I will come up in a little
while and collect the cheque.  Don't harrow
her.  She's the kind of ladyship who likes
to do business with *respectable* poverty."

When, a little later, we went upstairs,
James was sedately sipping more tea from a
cup.  And her ladyship was talking, and
James was viewing her with eyes of
innocence and wonder.  "I quite agree with you,"
said James, "that alpaca is the most sensible
thing for people of that class."

Baffin was dragged in, and the doctor
loudly proclaimed him as being of the
Leicestershire Baffins, and her ladyship suddenly
looked interested and human.

"You are an artist?" she said.  "How
very charming!"

Baffin, who had done very well up to then,
became suddenly ponderful again.  "I say,"
he blurted forth, at last, "couldn't I persuade
you to sit for me some time?  You are the
very thing I have been looking out for.  For
my angel's back, you know."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CONATUS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   VI


.. class:: center large bold

   CONATUS

.. vspace:: 2

I accepted Mr. Boag's invitation and dined
with him—at the National Liberal Club.
They wine you at this place in a manner
which is singularly perfect.  I cannot, at this
distance of time, state exactly what topics
formed the subject of Mr. Boag's improving
conversation; but I can say that, regarded
from the standpoint of Meliorism, his dinner
was an emphatic success.  And when it was
quite over I found myself upon the Thames
Embankment smiling cheerfully, as was
becoming to the happy circumstance of my
conversion to Mr. Boag's cheerful doctrines.

And thus it was that I came to take part,
unofficially, at another dinner party; a repast
*à deux*, with epigrams, and incident, all in
the most approved style of romance.  The
*tête-à-tête* is consecrated to literature by a
thousand charming precedents.  I shall
certainly offer no apology for submitting this
one to your indulgent consideration.

They were dining off alabaster—or was it
granite?—at the foot of Cleopatra's Needle;
and I remarked particularly the singular
blueness of Strephon's fingers.  The glorious
revelation, recently vouchsafed to me, of
Conative truths, had so warmed my heart,
had set up such a tingling within my veins
(which were themselves protected from chill
by several layers of wool and cambric) that
the few degrees of frost prevailing at the
moment had not yet become evident to my
senses.  Strephon, of course, was in another
case, being appropriately clad in garments
partaking of the nature of gossamer.  And
he, besides, had not been privileged to
receive the truths of Meliorism.  Wherefore,
he must blow upon his nail, and pinch his
scrubby cheek, and utter blasphemies, crying,
"Christ, mate, but this wind ain't 'arf a
nipper."

And she (the Chlöe of this story: the one
whom he addressed as "mate") made answer
thus: "Then do as I tell you, an' drink that up!"

"But 'ere, 'old 'ard!" cried Strephon, as
she poked a little bottle at his lips—"that's
your share, ain't it?"

"Not be rights," said the woman, blushing
a little—or seeming to blush; for she was a
battered, sodden thing, and her cheek had
lost its quickness.  "It ain't my share, be
rights.  I—I 'ad a sip at yourn.  Besides,
I've lorst me liking fur that Irish stuff.  Give
me Scotch!"

"This *is* Scotch, ain't it?" said the man.

"It is, bad luck to it," replied the woman
quickly.  "I've lost me likin' fur it, I tell
you.  Give me Irish!"

"Oh!" said the man, and he swallowed
her share.

He pocketed the empty bottle with a little
shiver of contentment.  The woman shivered
also, and plucked at an imaginary shawl.
"Now then, boy," she cried, with sudden
cheerfulness; "wake up, you ain't 'arf a
eater.  Why don't ye punch into that other
'am bone."

"So I shall," responded Boy, with a full
mouth, "when I done this."

"Righto, dearie," said the woman quietly,
with a sideways look at the ham bone and
another little shiver.  Then she drew closer
to her companion and looked at him silently,
with pity in her awful eyes.  "It's a funny
thing about you," she said at last; "you to
be on the rocks at your age—a boy like you!"

"I'm rather independent in me nature,"
explained the "Boy."  "I've stood fur me
rights and suffered by it.  'Ad some good
jobs in me time.  'Ad some money too.  I
was a bit lucky over cards.  Retired for a
year an' done it in.  Ain't 'ad no luck since."

"Funny, ain't it," said the woman, still
with that strange softness in her shameful
eyes.  "Funny, ain't it," she repeated: "a
boy like you."

"Not so much o' yere 'Boy,'" protested
Strephon; "I'm twenty-four."

"Ha!" cried the woman, crouching closer,
"what price yere 'umble then?  *I'm* turned
forty-four."

Strephon looked lazily at her, munching
his ham bone steadily.  She made a queer
figure, strange to see beside that world-old
monument, with her swollen, bloodless face,
and button nose, and greedy eyes, and
ravelled, rusty hair, the colour of an old
dog-fox's pelt.  And that which was upon
her head, a time-worn sailor-hat, set at a
ridiculous angle, increased the queerness of
her.  "What price yere 'umble?" she cried
again, with a shrill little creak of laughter;
"turned forty-four, I am."

"Yus," said Strephon simply, "and you look it!"

He continued to munch at his ham bone,
and she continued to leer at him, showing
neither anger nor surprise.  But the flat smile
on her face grew gradually flatter, and again
she shivered, plucking at the shawl which
was not there.

Suddenly the man looked up from his ham
bone and spoke to her.  "'Ow much did 'e
give you for it?" said he.

The woman uttered a sequence of scalding oaths.

"The stingy swine," cried she, "'e give
me a tanner; that's what 'e give me—a lousy
tanner.  See if I don't jolly well pop back
there and 'ave a shawl's worf out of 'is stinkin'
till—the stingy Jew."

"What!" said the man, evincing a sort of
interest.  "Are you in that line, then?  Tills
and ceterer?"

"I'm in any blessed line, I am," said the
woman, "s' long as there's the price of a fag
in it.  Never 'eard o' Nottingham Kate, I
suppose?  That's me.  I was well known
in me time.  'Twas I what done that
drugging affair at Weedon, when we put them
orficers through it.  They made a lot of that
job at the time.  I done five year for that."

"Well," commented Strephon, still gnawing
patiently at his bone, "it ain't much
to yere credit.  I'm on the straight ticket
meself.  Per'aps if I'd knowed the sort of
character you—but there: you ain't so bad
as some on 'em.  Harlot, or thief, or what
not, you've treated me quite fair....
Gurrr! ... Christ, but it's cold!"

"Chronic!" said the woman, pressing her
senseless fingers to her neck, in the way
which women have.

"That 'am," reflected Strephon, "just
sooted me all right.  Wish I 'ad a fag now."

Without a word, the woman struggled to
her feet, and descended the steps of the
pedestal, half walking, half crawling, like a
child.  She peered into the darkness, and
must have beheld a figure there; for she at
once came forward, with stiff, uncertain steps,
and having spoken to him, returned to her
pedestal the possessor of all his cigarettes.

"Strike me now," cried Strephon, beholding
her treasure with incredulous eyes; "you
*are* a deep one.  You don't 'arf know the
ropes.  Take one yerself, won't ye?"

Chlöe took a cigarette and lighted it; but
Strephon, after fumbling hopelessly with a
matchbox, threw the thing away from him
in petulant despair.  "See here," cried he.
"Look at them things, there!  Them's my
'ands; was once.  Look at 'em.  Gawd
'elp me, look at 'em.  I can't bend 'em; I
can't move 'em; Gawd 'elp me, I can't ser
much as lift 'em.  I——"

Chide, taking the cigarette from her lips,
placed it between his, which silenced them.
And then she took his hands, and with a
little laugh—the same old creak of a
laugh—she widened the gaping juncture of her
bodice, and placed his senseless hands within
it, where they lay warm beside her bosom.
The sudden contact of the ice-cold substance
forced a little shriek from her.

"That's a good idea, mate, that is," declared
her Strephon.  "'Ope you won't catch cold?"

"Co-old?" cried the woman, with a little
tremor.  "Co-ld be damned.  Us women
is different from you blo-o-kes.  We kin
sta-and more cold.  We got more warmth
be na-ature."

"I see," said Strephon, and he blew forth
a fat, contented cloud of cigarette smoke.

There was a silence, disturbed by the
chattering of the woman's teeth.  Then, at
last, with a sudden catching of the breath,
she spoke again—

"'Ere," she said, "'ere"—and she uttered
the familiar creak—"I'm doin' this because
I like you.  Wonder if you like me?"

"Ho," reflected Strephon, "you're all
right—considering what you are."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ON THE PROPERTIES OF WATER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   VII


.. class:: center large bold

   ON THE PROPERTIES OF WATER

.. vspace:: 2

"Doctor ... can you tell me if water is a
safe thing for anybody to drink?"

She was a wizened, alert little woman,
having bright eyes and an eager face.  The
back of the doctor's neck, which I spied
through my peephole, grew red under
pressure of the secret emotions occasioned by
this question.

"As to that," replied the doctor,
"I—ahem—er—I—well, in fact—er—ahem—you
see, er—Mrs.—Mrs.——"

"Mrs. Skelp, sir," interpolated the caller.
"Mrs. Skelp, of Peacock Street.  You must
remember me, sir.  I've 'ad you in for me
last three."

"Why, of course, I remember you, Mrs. Skelp,"
responded the shameless physician;
"your name had slipped my memory.  And
how are they all doing?"

"Nicely, thank you, sir," said Mrs. Skelp.
"Excepting," she added, as if with a sudden
afterthought—"the pore little thing what
died.  Although I'm sure, doctor—and
many's the time I said the same to Skelp—I'm
sure you done *your* best.  Though 'ow
you made seven visits of it when the child
was on'y ill five days is a thing I never
could—but, there, let bygones be bygones.  About
this water now.  You think that water's a
safe sort of thing for anybody to drink,
Doctor?"

"It's—ahem—it's a—er—a natural sort of
drink, you know," suggested the doctor.

"Why, cert'nly, Doctor," admitted
Mrs. Skelp.  "On'y ... Well, so far as that
goes, you could say the same of milk."

"You could," assented Dr. Brink.

"And yet," pursued his patient, "it is well
known to all of us what milk will do for the
system.  Look 'ow it puffs you out.  Look
at that baby of mine, the pore little thing
what died.  You did your best, Doctor, we
all know, but we've often thought since as
milk was at the bottom of it.  It doesn't do
for the likes of us to set ourselves up against
the doctor, but you'll remember yerself that
I had my suspicions about you ordering so
much milk.  'What *I* think she wants,'
I said,  is one of your biggest bottles of
good dark red, and——  But there, let
bygones be bygones.  What I really come 'ere
for is about this water question.  I says to
mine last night, I says—'e's a drayman,
you know, Doctor.'"

The Doctor nodded.

"Well," suggested Mrs. Skelp, "you know
what *draymen* are.  Water's no drink for a
drayman, Doctor."

"I—I suppose not," ventured the doctor.

"And mine, 'e's a 'eavy, full-bodied build
o' man.  And so I says to 'im—but what's
the good o' sayin' *anythink* to 'im.  The long
and the short o' it is, Doctor, as 'e's took to
the water 'abit.

"I meantosay," continued Mrs. Skelp,
having marked the doctor's grin, "I
meantosay as 'e's sworn off 'is licker.

"'E's a great reader is mine, you see.
'E sets up in bed for hours o' a Sunday
morning and gets through as much as
three-pennyworth o' papers at a setting.  Not that
I 'olds with so much readin', mind you.
'Moody boys an' readin' gals,' we used to
say—well, you know the rest, Doctor.  It's
a thankless 'abit.

"But, at the same time, mind you, I
believe in the notion that Sunday is a day
of rest.  A man's 'ouse is 'is own of a
Sunday, I always say.  And so I ain't never
raised no objections to mine amusin' 'isself;
and I can't say that no 'arm 'as ever come of
my good nature.  Not till now.  But now
we see the fruits of it.

"You see, Doctor, 'e's bin reading up the
subject o' his vitals.  And the long and short
of it is as 'e's took to what 'e calls 'is nature
treatment.  Not a tea-cup full o' beer will 'e
'ave inside the 'ouse, Doctor.  Not a
spoonful.  It's water—water, always water.  That
an' cocoa.  Fancy a drayman drinking cocoa,
Doctor!"

"Cocoa is a very wholesome drink," asserted
the doctor.

"For supper—yes," assented Mrs. Skelp.
"I agree with you there, Doctor.  But
'ooever 'eard of cocoa for breakfast and water
for dinner and water for tea?  And not
a drop of beer from one week's end to the
other?  Fancy a drayman without 'is beer,
Doctor!"

"He is probably much better without it,"
suggested Dr. Brink.

"*Better* without it?" echoed the visitor.
"Without beer?  A drayman?  Workin'
ten an' twelve hours on the stretch?  You
*live* with 'im, Doctor, and see if 'e's better
without it ... Not that I wish you no 'arm."

"And what," said the doctor, looking
earnestly at his watch, "and—er—what——"

"Well, Doctor," interpolated Mrs. Skelp,
"I really come to see if you could give me a
stifficut.  We must do something-."

"A certificate of what?" demanded the doctor.

"To say 'e needs it—fur the good o' 'is
'ealth, you know.  We can never go on like
this.  A little stifficut, Doctor, to say 'e
needs it."

"Needs what?" exclaimed the doctor,
yawning wearily.

"The beer," responded Mrs. Skelp.  "This
water will be the ruin of 'im, Doctor, and
me, too.  'E gets so down'earted, Doctor,
so solemn-minded, so short-spoken."

"I have already told you, Mrs. Skelp"—the
Doctor put on his heaviest consulting-room
manner—"I have already told you that
your husband is probably better off without
the beer.  How, then, can you expect
me—especially since I haven't seen him—to give
you the certificate which you ask for?  And
what difference would it make if I did?"

"'E wouldn't go against the doctor's
orders, sir.  Skelp is not that sort of man.
'E knows 'is place, sir.  I on'y got to show
him a brief from you, Doctor, to say that
what he wants is so many pints to nourish 'is
system, and there would be a end to all
this nonsense.  A drayman must 'ave beer,
Doctor."

"A drayman must have nothing of the
sort, Mrs. Skelp.  What a drayman must
have is plenty of rump steak and jam roll
and a quiet life and a jolly time.  Why do
you want him to have this beer?  Are you
any better off when he does have it?  The
more he spends on beer the less there is for
the home, you know."

"Mine ain't that sort," asserted Mrs. Skelp,
with a touch of asperity in her tone:
"*I* keep Skelp's money.  What he wants—is
beer.  The man's got that down-'earted 'e
isn't fit to live with.  A drayman must 'ave
beer."

Dr. Brink inspected his watch again.
"Well, Mrs. Skelp," he said, "you've had
more than your share of my time.  Send
him round to-morrow evening, and I'll tell
you what I think about it.  Good-night."

"My own idea, Doctor," said Mrs. Skelp,
as she made her exit, "is a pint an' a
'arf—let us say two pints—of stout and bitter.
But I leave the particklers to you, sir."

When she had really gone the doctor saw
some other patients—droves of them.  And
the last of the drove was a large red man,
who had called in to discuss his "constitootion."

"It's run down, Doctor," he explained.
"That's what it is.  Me constitootion is run
down.  Whenever I draws a slow, long
breath, it is the same as if there was snakes
and scorpions inside me.  Very painful it is."

"Then take a quick, short breath,"
suggested Dr. Brink.

The patient ignored this obvious response.
He did not pay his sixpence to be treated to
the obvious.  "Also," he continued, "it 'urts
me when I whistle."

"Then don't whistle," said the doctor.

"The long and the short of it is," pursued
the patient, again ignoring the voice of
science, "that my constitootion is thoroughly
run down....  I ... I was wondering,
Doctor....  Can you tell me if water is a
safe thing for anybody to drink?"

The Doctor started.  "Water is Nature's
beverage," he observed.

"But don't you think, Doctor," suggested
the invalid, "that when a man 'as got 'is
constitootion into a thoroughly onnatural
state, the same as what mine is, that a pint
or so of onnatural licker——"

"Oh ... a pint or so ... yes," put in
the doctor.

"I bin drinking a lot o' water lately,"
continued the patient.  "I thought I would give
it a trial, Doctor, being Nature's beverage
and what not, and so highly spoke of in
the papers.  But I come to the conclusion,
Doctor, as it don't get on wiv my constitootion.
I got a very peculiar constitootion,
Doctor, and it is very much run down.
Whenever I turn me eyes up, Doctor, a
'orrible sickly feeling comes over me."

"Turn 'em down then," said the doctor.

"You don't approve of all this water,
then?" inquired the patient.  "You think,
per'aps, a pint or two of ale——"

"A pint or two of ale?  Oh, certainly."

"Or stout, Doctor?  Say stout and bitter.
A couple o' pints o' stout and bitter, Doctor;
what?  To brace up me constitootion like.
What?"

"Stout and bitter," pronounced the doctor,
"has, in certain circumstances, a high tonic
value."

"Thank you, Doctor.  Would you be kind
enough to put it in writin', Doctor?  I'm a
family man, ye see, and seein' as I shall be
takin' this tonic for the good o' my constitootion,
I thought per'aps—you see my meanin',
Doctor?"

"Quite," said the doctor, reaching out for
a half-sheet of notepaper.  "Your name and
address?"

"Skelp," responded the patient.  "Samuel
Skelp, of Peacock Street.  My missus is one
o' your oldest customers."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE WAY OF THE EAST`:

.. class:: center large bold

   VIII


.. class:: center large bold

   THE WAY OF THE EAST

.. vspace:: 2

We had eaten a belated supper and drunk
of a belated cup, and the doctor, yawning
cheerfully, had doffed the vestments of
respectability, when there came a ring upon
the night-bell.  The doctor's comment on
this happening is of no historical importance.
It possessed but a topical interest.  Myself,
I stumbled down the darkling stairs, and,
upon opening the street door, was confronted
by a respectfully intoxicated giant, who gave
the name of Potter.  "Potter, of Mulberry
Street," he added, as a more explicit
afterthought.  He demanded Dr. Brink, explaining
the urgent requirements of Mrs. Potter.

"Have you your card?" I inquired in
the cold, commercial tone which this occasion
warranted.

Mr. Potter removed his cap—a peaked
object, of nautical aspect—and from the
lining of this he extracted a square of pink
pasteboard.  This voucher represented at
once a receipt and a warranty, being in the
first sense an acknowledgment of the sum
of ten shillings and sixpence, paid to
Dr. Brink in anticipation of certain services, and
recording, secondly, a promise from the
doctor duly and solemnly to render and
perform those services.  "And beggin' yere
pardon, young man," said Mr. Potter, in a
voice of gloom, "I was to tell you from me
aunt that the pains is comin' on a treat."

I had scarcely conveyed this joyful
intelligence to Dr. Brink, ere that gentleman
announced himself as being ready to embark
upon the enterprise demanded of him, having
clad himself in a fanciful costume consisting
of unlaced boots, slack trousers, a pyjama
jacket, an overcoat, and the inevitable top
hat.  He cheerfully accepted my offer to
bear him company upon his journey through
the night-bound alleyways, and together we
sallied forth.

But when we came to the first dim street
lamp a sudden monstrous shape appeared
within the circle of its radiance, and fawned
upon us silently.  I wondered, not too
hopefully, whether the things which rattled within
the doctor's bag were of sound and sterling
substance.  For we were not regularly armed,
and this monster—but he spoke, and thereby
set my doubts at rest.

"It is only Potter," murmured the monster,
with an apologetic shuffle.  "There's some
funny birds as stands abaht the corners yere
be night, and Mulberry Street is rather a
confusin' street to come at, and I thought
per'aps as you would be alone, Doctor, and
so I took the liberty.  It is a cold night for
the time o' the year: what?  I was to tell
you, Doctor, that the pains is comin' on most
beautiful."

Mr. Potter committed other information
to our confidence.  He was a stevedore, he
said; and he described the trials of that
calling.

"It is a 'ard life, a stevedore, what with
the 'eat and 'urry and all.  Me and my
mates, we shifted two 'underd an' twenty
tons o' sugar this very day.  But I'm 'oping
for a wink o' sleep to-night.  What with the
pains so good and all.  I could do with some
sleep.  Not that I wish the pore woman no
'arm.  She bin a decent wife to me.  But I
seems to want some sleep.  We shifted two
'underd an' twenty tons o' sugar to-day, me
an' my mates.  I see you brought your tool
kit, Doctor.  I find it cold for the time o'
the year.  Christ, but I do feel sleepy."

"I think that I can promise you a wink
or two," replied the doctor cheerfully.
"You'll be in bed and asleep before two
o'clock."

"Much obliged to you, Doctor, I'm sure,
Doctor," said the stevedore gratefully.  "Me
aunt is certainly of opinion that the pains
look very promising.  I could do wiv a few
hours' sleep.  Bin shifting sugar all the day.
Two 'underd and twenty ton we moved, and
there's as much standin' by what I got to
punch into termorrow.  I'm 'opin' fur a gel."

We came to Mulberry Street, wherein the
residence of Mr. Potter could be immediately
detected, by reason of the fact that its
door stood open—a certain signal in this
land of an expected visit from the doctor.
We entered the open doorway, and were
greeted cheerfully by auntie—an old, untidy,
work-stained woman, very drunk.

The stevedore conducted me into a
dishevelled kitchen, musty and cramped and
cobwebby.  He accepted a cigarette, and
spat into the fire, and looked at me stupidly.
"Two 'underd an' twenty ton!" he
exclaimed.  "Don't I deserve some blessed
sleep?"  And there came from some
adjacent place an answering moan.

I looked through the door of the kitchen
and into the grimy little passage beyond it,
wherein an open door gave access to another
room.  The doctor was in this room, and
auntie, and also, I supposed, the stevedore's
wife.  There came from this apartment
certain sounds as of joy and suffering
commingled.  It is but fair to state that most of
the joyful sounds appeared to be uttered by
auntie.  Auntie had chased away dull care.

It was, indeed, a perfectly refulgent auntie
who subsequently lolloped in upon us,
carrying a bundle.  "'Ere y' are, ole glum-face,"
chirruped auntie; "take young Joe.  An'
mind as 'e don't 'oller.  Where you put that jug?"

Mr. Potter seized the bundle, and, loosening
its folds, exposed a rather maculate small
boy, having the paternal cast of feature.

"Look at 'is chest," observed the father
simply.  "This is ye're sort for punchin'
into sugar.  Auntie, where's the other one?"

"Alf," responded auntie, "is all right
where 'e is.  Alfie's old enough to be'ave
'isself.  Mind young Joe don't 'oller.  Where
you put that jug?"

Joe's reply was drowned by a pitiful cry
which came from the other room.  But
auntie found the jug all right.  "'Ere's to a
gel, ole dear!" quoth auntie.  But ... there
came that cry again....  At which the old
woman regretfully parted from us and the
jug and returned to her pious duty of
hindering Dr. Brink.

And Mr. Potter once more directed my
attention to the physical perfections of his
offspring.  "I'm proud o' this bloke," he
said.  "My on'y longin' is to see 'im grow
up straight and punch the coal abaht.  I do
not grudge 'im nuthink.  Y' oughter see 'im
of a Sunday: 'e ain't 'arf a nib o' Sundays.
Velvets and all, ye know.  I 'ope the Doctor
'll look sharp.  I got a 'eavy day termorrer.
My missus is a decent woman, and I don't
wish 'er no 'arm; but Gawd knows as I
want some sleep be this time.  'Ere's Fred."

Fred was a listless youth, kin to the
stevedore.  And he came in tired and pale, having
"done a whack o' overtime at the pickle
works."  And he said no word to anybody,
but set a saucepan on the sullen fire and sat
beside it, stupidly, waiting for an egg to boil.
"She don't 'arf sing about it."  "What?"
demanded the husband, almost savagely.
"Ah!" responded Fred.

Then there rang out another sound—the
voice of auntie, raised in raucous laughter.
"My Gawd!" she cried, "'ow's that for a
beauty?"

Mr. Potter shook the drowsy, silent child
upon his knee.  "Cheer up, Joe," he cried;
"you're cut out now, me lad.  You ain't the
baby any more.  D'jeer?  Then gimme a
bleedin' kiss."

Auntie appeared for a moment in the
doorway.  "Boy," said she.

Mr. Potter's joy was, for a moment,
modified by this announcement.  "It was a gel I
wished for," he said.  "It was a gel we
wanted."  He rubbed his chin upon young
Joseph's yellow head.

"But," he continued, beholding suddenly
a pleasant truth, "we shall get some blessed
sleep at ennyrate....  Ain't it time that
little beggar started in to cry?"

But the boy Fred, to whom Mr. Potter
presumably addressed himself, offered no
reply.  He was engaged in boiling his egg.

"I *should* like to 'ear the beggar cry,
though," said Mr. Potter wistfully, after a
pause.  He rubbed his chin on Joseph's
head again.  The boy Fred stirred his
saucepan.  "Funny, ain't it," mused the stevedore,
"that the little chap don't 'oller?"  But as
he spoke, the little chap responded.  "That's
done it," cried the stevedore, and rubbed his
chin on Joseph's head.

And then I clearly heard the voice of
auntie.  "That young man what's with you,
Doctor, is 'e a doctor, too?"

"Not exactly a doctor," responded Brink;
"but he knows quite as much about medicine
as any doctor."

"Because," pursued auntie, "the young
man might like to step in and see this baby.
It's the biggest baby ever *I* see."

"So it is," assented the doctor.  "So he
would."

He thought, God help him, that it would
please me to see inside that room.

And so he called to me, and I stepped
forward and found myself in front of a reality.
You know the thing, of course: a poor, white
woman in a poor, white bed.  And——  But
need I describe it?  You know it all,
don't you?

You do not know it.

I know it—now.  I know what is the way
of the East.  I will tell you what I saw.

I saw a bare brown mattress, and on it lay
a moaning woman, fully dressed: *entirely*
dressed.  And at her head there lay the
new-born babe, and at the baby's head another
child—a child of six.  And when I entered in
this child made speech.  "Auntie's gointer
dress him soon," he said.

"This, my pure young friend," said Doctor
Brink, "is a typical *mise en scène*.  Every
detail is correct."

"Correct?" squawked the triumphant
auntie.  "It's a double-adjectived marvel
... You're a genelman, Doctor!"

I ran away from this sick-room.  I ran
out into the rain....  I observed, as I ran
past him, that the boy Frederick had boiled
his egg and was eating it.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE 'POTHECARY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   IX


.. class:: center large bold

   THE 'POTHECARY

.. vspace:: 2

The curious establishment of Dr. Brink
contained one curiosity which I have not yet
described to you.  His name was Gilkes—Samuel
de Quincey Gilkes—and he was
poor and unwashed, and angular and polite,
and full of wonder.

He was Dr. Brink's dispenser, or, as the
natives preferred to have it, the 'Pothecary.

Gilkes was a tall man, especially for a
'Pothecary, the races of 'Pothecaries being
commonly little and round and complacent.
But Gilkes was a giant of his species;
albeit, he was timid and obliging, and
carried his stature with an air of not
wishing to create comment.  He had long
brown hair and a vague mouth, and very
lean hands, with which he stroked the
furniture when he spoke to you.  His eyes were
blue, but of an exceptional paleness, and
they were restless, seeking eyes, which
looked beyond you, as if they saw the sea
with ships upon it.  I think that Mr. Gilkes
deserves a little paper to himself.

I should have told you that he was not
a very young man, having reached, perhaps,
his fortieth year.  But his heart was filled
with a serene and youthful hope; for he
cherished the belief that he would one day
pass his final examination in surgery and
medicine, and would take his degree and
figure upon the rolls as a fully licenced
practitioner.  In the meantime he was humble.

I have often listened to his sorrowful
reproaches when Dr. Brink, weary of the
delays occasioned by his apothecary's interest
in distant ships, would hurl himself into the
little dispensary and concoct the bottles of
light brown with his own hand.

"You shouldn't, sir," the 'Pothecary would
say; "you shouldn't.  You mustn't.  It isn't
fitting, sir.  It isn't proper.  It isn't the
thing.  I know I'm remiss.  I know I'm
slow.  You ought to discharge me.  You
ought to discharge me.  I must pass my
final.  I certainly must.  You oughtn't to
do it.  Two grains calomel.  Two grains
calomel.  I certainly must.  Certainly.
Certainly."  And then, his utterance growing
fainter and finally ceasing, the 'Pothecary
would rest his chin upon a hand and look
out once again upon the ships at sea, and
somebody would go without his calomel.

Mr. Gilkes had also the habit of rising
late—a detestable habit.  And it therefore
happened that the doctor's waiting-room
would be filled with impatient women before
his dispenser arrived to make up the "light
browns" and "dark reds," upon which they
lavished so much faith.

But when the 'Pothecary did arrive there
was always an apology upon his lips—the
same apology every time.  "I'm late again,
sir; late again.  Forty minutes late.  I'm
awful, sir; awful.  You will have to
discharge me.  I'm always late.  I'm awful.  It
won't do.  It isn't fair.  I shall have to go.
I must pass my final.  Sach.  Ust.  For
Mr. Jenner, sir?  Yes, sir.  Sach.  Ust.
Sach.  Ust.  I'm awful; awful."

The doctor and James invariably observed
the form of asking him up to tea.  But with
equal regularity he would reply with a formula
of plaintive, almost passionate protest.
"Impossible, sir.  Not for a minute.  You mustn't.
You can't.  I'm not worth it, sir.  It isn't
usual, sir.  It isn't the thing.  When I've
passed my final, sir—perhaps then.  Perhaps
then.  I *will* pass my final, sir.  I must."

And Mr. Gilkes would sight a sail and
watch it eagerly with a little fluttering smile.

He always dressed himself in shabby
black.  This emphasised his stature and the
exceeding leanness of him.  It also served
to disguise the unnatural colour of his linen,
He did not smoke, and they naturally say
that he drank.  But I never saw him drunk.
He would sometimes look out upon his ship
with the gaze of one who is intoxicated with
the splendour of his visions.  But this is not
the same as being drunk.

Wilfered, his successor in the post of
'Pothecary (for you will understand that
Mr. Gilkes became impossible), has placed on
record that "Gilkes fair give you the 'errors,
a-talkin' to 'isself the livelong day and strokin'
the bottles and seein' snakes."  But Wilfered
is young and strenuous, and efficient.  His
heart is in his work.  He adds the water to
the sugar with extreme exactitude, and, not
being versed in the language of pharmacy,
he is convinced that not merely the
reputation of Dr. Brink, but the very lives of all
his patients are bound up in the exact and
scrupulous decoction of the liquids
committed to his care.  But he does not interest
himself in distant ships.

For myself, I am sorry that Mr. Gilkes
became impossible.  I like dumb animals.

I shall always remember the evening when,
coming unexpectedly to the house, I saw
him sitting by a window with the light from
the setting sun upon his face and shabby
coat.  He was talking to James.  And
James has the knack of making people talk much.

"He writes, does he?" said the 'Pothecary.
(I think that the question must have
applied to your servant.)  "He would.  Of
course he would.  Quite naturally.  Just so.
Of course.  Some people can write.  They
have the trick.  Some people can do
anything.  Anything.  I must pass my final.
They thought I was going to be a writer
myself once.  To write poetry, I suppose.
'He's half a poet,' they use to say, 'half a
poet.'

"But I wasn't worth the compliment.
I couldn't find the rhymes, you know.  I
could see it all—sometimes, you know; but
I couldn't find the rhymes.  Once I nearly
reached it, but only once—only nearly.
You see, I—I haven't even passed my final.
Not yet.  But I will.  I must.  I nearly
did it last time—nearly.  Nearly."

His voice dropped low; so low that you
could hardly hear it.  And he looked out
to sea again; but not with gladness.  I
think he saw some sort of hulk or derelict.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE MOTHER'S TRADE UNION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   X


.. class:: center large bold

   THE MOTHER'S TRADE UNION

.. vspace:: 2

"My motter," said 'Ost 'Uggins decisively,
"is 'Live an' let live.'  We won't deny but
what the young woman 'as acted wrongful.
She 'as broke an important commandment,
as we all know, besides puttin' my 'ole
establishment to expense and inconvenience.
Besides upsettin' my good lady.  Besides
disgracin' 'er fambily.

"But at the same time I can't forget that
my mother's father was 'isself a fondling.
And we live in a Keristian age.  And the
one as is most to blame is the *man*, 'ooever
'e may be, the ugly 'ound.  What'll you take,
Doctor?"

"Ginger b——," began the doctor, having
knowledge of the Mile End drink traffic.
But he checked himself, yielding, I suppose,
to the reflection that duty called for a more
enthusiastic response to 'Ost 'Uggins's
hospitality.

"I will have a glass of—of whatever you
drink yourself," said the doctor.

'Ost 'Uggins favoured us with a heavy
wink.  His face and figure as he stood there
behind the marble counter of his "saloon
compartment" suggested coarseness and
obesity and vulgarity and opulence and
ignorance, and—and manhood.

   |  They used to say that pigs could fly,
   |  Oh, aye, oh!
   |  They used to say that pigs could fly
   |  A hundred years ago.
   |

It is certain that *this* pig could fly.  For
"Live and let live" was his motto.  The
pig is an animal which is held in
unwarrantable disdain by pious men.

Having concluded the wink, 'Ost 'Uggins
inserted a ponderous hand into a nook
concealed by a framed portrait of himself—it
represented Mr. Huggins in the costume of
an Arch Grand something or other of the
Ancient and Vociferous Order of
Somebodies—and produced therefrom a special,
private, and particular bottle.  This vessel,
'Ost 'Uggins was at pains to make clear,
contained "real licker."  He did not pour
its precious golden drops into the muddy
stream of commerce; but, on the contrary,
he kept them tightly corked, and in strict
reserve for the appreciative palates of his
kindred and convives.  "This is the real
thing," said Mr. Huggins; "no sale for it yere."

"'Ere's to your 'ealth, Doctor," pursued
'Ost 'Uggins, "and to this young man's as
well.  And 'ere's wishin' that foolish young
female well over 'er whack o' trouble.  What's
the missus 'ad to say to you *to-day*?"

"Same as before," replied the doctor.
"She says the girl's a hussy.  She says she
always knew it.  She says you are pig-headed
and obstinate, and she *will* be mistress in her
own house, and why don't you put up a notice
saying, 'Beds for lying-in kept here,' and be
done with it.  And if the girl had done her
duty and attended to business and kept the
glasses washed instead of for ever gossiping
with the Jew boys on the saloon side, this
thing would never have happened.  And if
girls are to be petted and pampered for being
bad, what is the use of having marriage lines
and living decent?  She also intimates that
your attitude in this matter is not becoming
to a married man.  If she were a jealous
woman she *might* begin to wonder if——"

Mr. Huggins smiled broadly.  "My good
lady, as the sayin' goes," quoth he, "would
talk the 'ind leg off a donkey.  But we
understand each other, 'er and me, and ... we've
buried three.  I bin in this business for forty
year, man and boy.  I know life.  We
understand each other, Doctor.  What?  'Ave
another.

"'Live and let live' is *my* motter.  She
bin with us three years, that silly kid.  She
could go further with the eighteen gallons
nor any young woman as ever served in my
bar.  Where's she to go if my wife as 'er
way?  And the kid?  We buried three
ourselves, which is a thing what you might think
would soften a woman's 'eart.  But it don't,
not in circs. like this.  These good women
they *got* no 'eart—not when it comes to bad
women.  It's a sort of—a sort of——"

"Trade unionism," suggested Dr. Brink.
And 'Ost 'Uggins, who at first looked solemn
and inquiring, gradually smiled his assent to
Dr. Brink's suggestion.

"I s'pose poor Phoebe *is* a blackleg," he
mused.  "But my motter is 'Live and let
live.'  She was wonderful coaxing with the
disorderlies.  What else my missus say to you?"

"She said you were looking for trouble."

"What else?"

"She said, 'Minx!' 'Damned devil!'
'Disgraceful slut!'"

"Anythink else?"

"She said that either the hussy or she
would leave this house."

"And what did *you* say, Doctor?"

"I said that the girl was not fit to be
moved, and that SHE couldn't be spared."

"And what did she say to that?"

"She said that we had made up a fine old
tale between us, I and her old man."

"Is that the lot?"

"That's the lot."

"Very well then," commented Mr. Huggins.
"Do you know what I shall say to it all,
Doctor?  I shall say: 'Tut, woman; tut!'"

"Meaning?" queried the doctor.

"Meaning?" echoed 'Ost 'Uggins, as he
thumped his fist upon the counter, not
without menace to its marble surface, "meaning
that I am a man of few words: that I *will*
be master in me own 'ouse: that my motter
is 'Live and let live.'  That I won't see a
pore girl drove to ruin not for all the
cantankerous whims of all the cantankerous
wives in all——.

"Below there!  'Ush!" he added, with
a sudden dropping of his voice.  "'Ere *is*
the missus!"

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"Where you gointer, you George?" demanded
the missus, as George prepared to
leave us.

"Goin' to find that fat-'eaded boy, my
dear," responded George.  "There's a barrel
wants tappin'."

"There's a lot more than barrels wants
tappin' in this 'ouse," said Mistress Huggins,
with an air which was evidently intended to
be significant of much.  "What you done
with that gel?"

"Me, my dear?" responded the fist-strong
Huggins.  "Me?  *I* ain't moved 'er."

"Time you did, then.  When's she
gointer leave this 'ouse?"

'Ost 'Uggins gently but firmly retreated.
"I bin discussin' it over with the doctor, my
dear," he explained, upon gaining the little
glass door which led into their private
parlour.  "'*E'll* tell you all about it.  That's
right, ain't it, Doctor?  You'll tell 'er all
about it.  Don't forget my motter, Doctor."  And
Mr. Huggins obliterated himself.

Mrs. Huggins, upon the contrary, and as
it might be, intensified herself.  "Look here,
Doctor What-its-name," she said, "I kin
spot the little game what is bein' played
between the landlord an' you, same's if I
was partner.  You are gettin' up a
conspiracy.  See?  *I* know it.  *I* can't be
fooled."

Mrs. Muggins was a mud-coloured woman,
with a smouldering eye.  She had rings on
every finger and more knuckles than rings.

"*I* can't be fooled!" she repeated.
"What you doin' with that gel?"

"Leaving her where she is," responded
the doctor.  "She really isn't fit to be
moved."  He added this information in the
tone of one imparting confidences to a friend.

"Fit or not fit, do you suppose I'm gointer
*let* 'er stop there?  A low, ondecent 'ussy
like what she is, to lie between my honest
sheets!  Take the gel away, I tell you!
Do you want to make trouble between a
man and 'is wife?  Take the gel away!"

Dr. Brink assumed a highly authoritative
tone.  "It is my duty as a doctor, madam,"
said he, "to warn you that the girl is not
fit to be moved.  And your husband, who in
law is the responsible head of this house,
agrees with me that——"

"Why ain't she fit to be moved?  Answer
me that?" rasped the woman.

"Because," said the doctor, as 'Ost
'Uggins's expressive features came peeking
round the doorpost, "because a poor girl of
twenty who has just given birth to——"

"Given birth!" shrieked the woman.
*"Given birth*!  And in my 'ouse!

"The disgraceful, shameless thing!  And
me to be kept in ignorance!  And now I
think of it, I did seem to think or fancy as I
heered a squallin'.  In *my* 'ouse above all!
May the Lord——  'Ssh!  What's that?"

"That," explained 'Ost 'Uggins, obtruding
a further portion of his face, "is the little
bleater callin' for 'is vittles."

Mrs. Muggins's face grew strangely red,
her lip grew strangely tremulous.  "It's a
funny thing to me," she said, "to think as I
wasn't allowed to know....  'Oo's with 'er?"

"Mrs. Tuck, from the cabyard," responded
'Ost 'Uggins, "'as laid the fondling
out an' that."

Mrs. Huggins stamped a foot.  "You
clumsy fool!" she cried.  "What do we
want your Mrs. Tucks for?  A drunken
piece like she is!  Ain't you got enough to
do in the bar without pokin' your nose into
a woman's business like what this is?

"And me the last to 'ear of it!  In me
own 'ouse, too!  Me that has buried three.

"Mrs. Tuck!  Fools!  Let me pass, you
George!  That child 'll 'ave convulsions in
a minute! ... Mrs. Tuck in my 'ouse!"

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"I wish," murmured the doctor hopelessly,
as he mopped his forehead, "that I
could understand the rules of their Society."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE DIAGNOSIS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XI


.. class:: center large bold

   THE DIAGNOSIS

.. vspace:: 2

I have heard it said by the enemies of
Dr. Brink that he is surly, or, as some prefer to
have it, brusque.  I cannot too strongly
express my disagreement with this view.  I
know the doctor intimately, and I can assert
with confidence that in private intercourse he
is the soul of courtesy, exactitude, and
punctilio.  If, during business hours, he becomes
what Mrs. Duke calls "crisp"—and I won't
deny that this thing sometimes happens—it
behoves us, as an audience of Christian
people, to view this failing with the eye of
charity, and to think of the temptations which
the poor man has to face.

Bovingdon Street has many graces; but
gifts of mind are not conspicuous amongst
them.  The capacity for giving evidence is
possibly an instinct and possibly an art, and
even more possibly it is both.  But it is
a certain thing that working a mangle makes
you stupid.  Which, of course, accounts for
Mrs. Rafferty.

She called in yesterday—a little,
jug-shaped woman, having a limp fringe and
mysterious pains.  She is a fine example of
the sort of temptation which is always luring
on the Doctor to display his horrible power
of crispness.  She is a fine example of the
Bovingdon Street matron.

I happened to be helping James to make
a pancake when she came along, and I was
therefore privileged to overhear the particulars
of Mrs. Rafferty's disorder.  And if I
record exactly the dialogue to which I listened,
you will be able to judge as well as I or
Mrs. Rafferty whether the Doctor's sixpennyworth
of diagnosis was value for money.  Behold,
the chronicles:—

MRS. RAFFERTY: It's my pore back I come
to see you for, Doctor: that and a sort of
dizziness what takes me in the leg.  And me
throat is sore.  And I gits sich 'orrid
nightmares, Doctor, and I was goin' to arst you,
Doctor, do you think it right for anyone to
be always feeling thirsty?  Because——

DR. BRINK: How long has this been
going on?

MRS. R.: I don't say as the feelin' thirsty
is a unpleasant feelin', mind you; but I
wondered if it was nat'ral.  That's all I'm
wonderin' about, Doctor.  You can't 'elp
noticin' anythin' like that, and anybody would
fancy it's a bit queer to be *always* feelin'
thirsty.  And then the 'eadaches, Doctor!
They comes on all so sudden, Doctor—unexpected,
like; and if it wasn't——

DOCTOR: How long has this been going on?

MRS. R.: You can see yerself 'ow pale I'm
lookin', Doctor.  I 'ad a drop o' stout for me
breakfast 'smornin'—no more'n would fill a
teacup, Doctor—and believe me or believe
me not, it brought on the pains that fearful
I was obliged to scream.  What do you think
is the matter with me, Doctor?

DOCTOR: I shall be better able to tell you
when you've answered a few questions.  In
the first place, how long has this sort of thing
been going on?

MRS. R.: It's the pain more'n the longness
of it, Doctor, which I look to.  And if
I close my eyes and touch anythink cold with
me 'ands I kin see a lot of funny green
things all in front—floatin', if you understand
me, Doctor.  Me 'usband, when 'e was a
sowjer abroad in Dublin, 'e got took with
the same thing, along o' eatin' 'ysters in a
onfit state.

DOCTOR: How is your appetite, by the way?

MRS. R.: I was wonderin' if me lungs is
affected, Doctor.  If ever I drink a cup of
very 'ot tea I kin feel a funny sensation
right down me froat.  What I reely want is
change of hair.

DOCTOR: Do you drink much tea?

MRS. R.: It's good tea what we 'ave.

DOCTOR: Do you drink much tea?

MRS. R.: And besides, Doctor, I don't
see as tea kin 'urt me, because me an' my
'usband we're rather partickler about the
class of——

DOCTOR: Do you drink much tea?

MRS. R.: And then again, Doctor, why
should me 'air be fallin' out?  I'm not a old
woman.  Thirty-six is my age, and I ain't
ashamed to own it.  It's a pity me 'air is
fallin' out because they say as I'm a
young-looking woman for my age.  And——

DOCTOR: When did you first notice that
your hair was falling?

MRS. R.: I don't think that the state of
me 'air is anythink to be ashamed of, even
now, mind you.  But still it ain't a very
pleasant thing, especially at my age.  Is it
anythink to do with what I eat, do you
think, Doctor?  I often wonder.

DOCTOR: How is your appetite?

MRS. R.: It isn't the quantity I was
thinkin' of, Doctor, so much as the class of
food as we go in for.  We both of us got a
taste for 'am an' bloaters, and so forth.

DOCTOR: Do you enjoy your food?

MRS. R.: But if me 'air is fallin' out on
that account——

DOCTOR: Are you a hearty eater?

MRS. R.: Of course, Doctor, I on'y want
to know what's right.

DOCTOR: You say that your appetite is good?

MRS. R.: I was sayin' about us bein'
partial to 'am and so forth, Doctor.  If you
think I oughter stop it, I kin easy do so.  I
on'y wanter do what's right.  What's your
opinion about me, Doctor?  You can see I'm
very ill.

DOCTOR: I'm giving you some medicine,
Mrs. Rafferty—you've brought your bottle,
I see—it's a strong tonic, and there are three
pills with it, which——

MRS. R.: I forgot to arst you, Doctor.
Do you think a drop of stout—as much as
you kin get into a egg-cup—would 'urt a
little boy of five years old what's got a
poverty of 'is blood?  There's a neighbour
o' mine—a very nice woman—wh——

DOCTOR: About these pills, Mrs. Rafferty:
I want you to take one when you get in, one
before you go to bed, and one——

MRS. R.: Can I take a little slice of 'am,
Doctor, or must I live on slops and that?

DOCTOR: You can eat exactly what you
please.  This medicine will put you right.
It is a very strong, dark red tonic.  Do you
understand about the pills, now?

MRS. R.: She's a nice woman, and it's sad
to see her strugglin' along by 'erself wiv that
boy to keep.  And so I told 'er——

DOCTOR: Send her round to see me.  You'll
get your medicine from the dispenser.

MRS. R.: About me wrists, Doctor: I find
that one is thicker than——

DOCTOR: Come and see me again when
you've finished that medicine.  Pay outside.

MRS. R.: And, Doctor, is there anything
more besides the physic?  I thought perhaps
you would give me a pill.

DOCTOR: I am giving you three pills.  One
of them I want you to take when you get in,
another at night, and——

MRS. R.: About the money, Doctor: I
s'pose as it'll do if I pay next week?





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE TUSKERS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XII


.. class:: center large bold

   THE TUSKERS

.. vspace:: 2

It has not been the fortune of the present
historian to enjoy a personal experience of
the state of matrimony.  But he has never
been lacking in awe for the wonders attaching
to that institution.  It has always seemed
to him, looking upward, as it were, from the
mire of bachelordom, that the married mind
is subject to rare emotions, productive of a
singular philosophy which one must view
with astonishment, if not with envy.

In illustration of my meaning, permit me
to cite the case of the Tuskers.

The Tuskers, as we were definitely
informed by Mr. Tusker, have been tasting
the wedded blisses for nearly eighteen years.
And Mr. Tusker called in recently at Doctor
Brink's in the matter, as he expressed it, of
"any old bottles, any old rags; old bones,
rabbit-skins, waste paper to buy," which
somehow looks wrong.  Let us try again—

   |  Any old bottles?
   |  Any old rags?
   |  Old bones,
   |  Rabbit-skins,
   |  Waste paper,
   |  To buy!
   |

That is better.  Mr. Tusker is nothing if
not lyrical.

Also, he is a massy-jawed person in a
muffler, having a dent over one eye and a
limpy walk.  Likewise, he is accompanied
by an objectionable smell, arising partly from
his trade, profession, or occupation.  It is an
impressionist sort of smell.  The impression
it suggested to me was that Mr. Tusker had
been subjected to long, long years of solitary
confinement in an over-heated chicken-coop.

Mr. Tusker, having recited his little poem,
was rewarded by a "Not to-day, thank you,"
from Doctor Brink.

"What?" cried Mr. Tusker.  "Not any
old bottles; any old rags?"

"No," insisted Doctor Brink.

"Ho," quoth Mr. Tusker.  "Right you
are, then.  One minute, Doctor.  The missus.
Ahtside.  Can I trouble you?"

"How?" inquired the doctor.

"You know, mate," expounded Mr. Tusker.
"Below par.  Orfer oats.  See?  Jes'
run the rule over 'er, Doctor; will ye?"

"Certainly," replied the doctor, the light
of intelligence at last illuminating his eye.
"Bring the lady inside."

Mr. Tusker accordingly repaired to the
roadway, where his barrow was in waiting.
It was a roomy barrow, filled to overflowing
with bulging sacks, one of which, being
pushed, came to life as Mrs. Tusker, and
walked into Doctor Brink's consulting-room.

She was a tired old sack, was Mrs. Tusker,
much patched, even as to her face,
which was further distinguished by being
bruised in several places, a fact which
accentuated its native homeliness.

"Below par.  Orfer oats," repeated
Mr. Tusker, with a jerk of the thumb in the
direction of the old sack.  "Jes' run yere
rule over 'er, Doc."

"Had a bad accident, hasn't she?" began
the doctor.  "That plaster——"

"Never mind the plaster," said the husband.

"No," repeated Mrs. Tusker, "never
mind that."

"Orfer oats, see?" prompted Mr. Tusker.

"Ain't got no appetite," confirmed the lady.

"'Er system.  See?" added Mr. Tusker.

"Yus," assented Mrs. Tusker.  "Me system."

"Jes' run yere rule over 'er," said Mr. Tusker.

"Well," mused the doctor, "want of appetite
doesn't produce itself, you know.  I
mean to say——  Her face now.  It's very
swollen.  The lower part espec——"

"Never mind 'er face, ole man," suggested
Mr. Tusker.

"No," said the patient; "never mind me face."

"*I* done that, ye see," remarked Mr. Tusker.

"Yus," replied Mrs. Tusker, "'e done that."

Doctor Brink, after staring hard at
Mr. Tusker, resumed his inspection of the wife.
"I don't know what sort of appetite you
expect to have," he said, "with those four
bruises.  Her face is simply pul——"

"Oh!" reflected Mr. Tusker, "them
marks is out o' date.  They put me away
for them."

Mrs. Tusker nodded.

"I—I don't quite understand," exclaimed
the doctor.

"I done 'em of a Saturday night, ye see,"
explained the husband.  "And they put
me away to the Scrubs.  Three weeks I was in."

"Three weeks," repeated Mrs. Tusker.

"They on'y let me out s'mornin'."

This statement was audited and found
correct by Mrs. Tusker.  "On'y this
mornin'," she said.

"This is the state I find 'er in," continued
Mr. Tusker.  "Orfer oats.  They put me
away.  See?  And there wasn't no one to
look arter 'er."

"Nobody to look arter me," agreed the wife.

"Her neck must be troubling her too,"
began the doctor.  "I see she's been rather
badly sca——"

"Never mind the scalding," protested
Mr. Tusker.  "Give 'er some physic, Doctor."

"Yus," echoed Mrs. Tusker.  "Gimme
some physic."

"You see," explained the husband, evidently
determined that this important detail
in the history of the case should not be
overlooked, "I bin away.  They put me
away for three weeks.  And this is 'ow I
find 'er.  She ain't 'ad no one to look arter
'er.  See?  Give 'er some physic, Doctor."

So they had their physic, and they went away.

I watched them passing up the road,
Mr. Tusker limping behind his barrow and this
peculiar old sack of his limping behind
Mr. Tusker.  And Mr. Tusker, as he limped,
was declaiming a kind of poem—a rude sort
of piece; but I've no doubt that in the ears
of the old sack-thing at his heel, that which
he uttered was as the music of the spheres.
And the words of his poem were these:—

   |  Any old bottles?
   |  Any old rags?
   |  Old bones,
   |  Rabbit-skins,
   |  Waste paper,
   |  To buy!
   |

As they receded into the endless perspective
of Bovingdon Street, the sacks became
confused in my sight, and I wondered which
of them contained the rags and bones and
bottles, or which was occupied by
rabbit-skins and Mrs. Tusker....  Not that it
really mattered.





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.. _`ART LOVERS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XIII


.. class:: center large bold

   ART LOVERS

.. vspace:: 2

Mr. Clarence Gordon Prince appeared
first in the capacity of a patient.  He came
to have a tooth out.  "Three teeth out, to
tell ye the troof, Doctor," he added, and with
the air of a man who had given a liberal
order and knew it, he seated himself,
throwing back his head and shutting both eyes.

"Want 'em all out now—at once?" demanded
the doctor.

"Cert'nly," responded Clarence.  "I'm a gunner."

Dr. Brink evidently perceived the point of
this observation, for he made no further
speech, but drew the teeth forthwith.  And
Clarence kept on smiling.

He performed his subsequent ablutions in
silence, but, having completed them and
deposited three sixpences upon the
consulting-room table, he again spoke.

"Well, Doctor," he said, "I'll say
good-night, and pop off," which he did.

But when he reached the door-step,
Baffin found him, and Baffin rejoiced in
the find.  "You've been a soldier?"
exclaimed Baffin.

"Gun-layer.  'Owitzer Battery, R.A.  Nine
year.  Invalided."  Clarence smiled again.

"I want you," said Baffin.  "Wait there."

Mr. Prince accordingly waited, and his
patience was rewarded by the reappearance
of Baffin, with whom was Dr. Brink.  "This
gentleman," said the doctor, "is an artist.
He wants you to sit for him.  How tall are you?"

"Six-one-and-a-'arf."

"How much round the chest?"

"Forty-two."

"Round the arm?"

"Twenty."

"Got a shovel?"

Mr. Prince's smile gave place to a suspicious
frown.  "I could *get* one," he said,
at last.

"Bring it along to-morrow," commanded
the doctor.  "We want you to sit.  You'll
be well paid.  You're out of work, I
suppose?"

"I'm out of work all right," responded
Mr. Prince.  "But—but ... what you want
me to do?" demanded Mr. Prince.

"Never mind that," he was told.  "Just
come along.  And wear your oldest clothes.
And bring the spade."

To the surprise of both Baffin and the
doctor, Clarence did come along,
accompanied by the spade.  He was very out of
work indeed, it seemed, and had sold his
medals to pay for the comfort of having his
teeth out, and for subsequent treatment at
the "African Chief."  He wanted work, and
was willing, but this yere sitting
game—"what was it?"

Baffin took him to the "studio," *née*
wash-house, and there he drank some tea, and was
confronted by an easel, and was induced to
seat himself upon the extreme corner of a
small chair, whilst Baffin pretended to sketch
him.  This proceeding is technically described
as putting your model at his ease.

At the end of an hour the soldier was
asked to stand up and drink beer out of a
jug, a function which he performed with very
tolerable grace.  He was then allowed to go
home.

"But come here early to-morrow morning,"
said Baffin.  "Do you think you'll like
the work?"

"Work seems all right," responded
Mr. Prince.  "I'll come at nine o'clock."

He arrived at the time stated, having
carefully attired himself in his Sunday "blacks,"
and a white turn-down collar.  He had
likewise operated with sand upon the metal parts
of his shovel, so that that instrument glittered
exceedingly.  Also, he had perfumed his
hair.  And Baffin ordered him to go home
again and reinvest himself with the
habiliments of toil.

The spade we kept and improved upon in
a corner of the doctor's little garden—a
corner in which rare bulbs were buried.
Clarence returned to us looking natural and
dirty, and wearing a resigned expression.

Then he sat, or rather stood, in earnest,
whilst Baffin "studied" him in pencil and
charcoal and crayon, and in every other
sort of pigment.

And when the artist had tired of this
employment, Mr. Prince came down from his
platform and studied the pictures with an air
of cold reserve.  He said that he thought
he might as well be going.  And he went.

The subsequent sittings were in all
respects a repetition of the first.  But at the
end of the week, a strange thing happened.
Mr. Clarence Gordon Prince permitted
himself to give utterance to a remark.  He had
been paid his first week's wages—a
sovereign, and, having spat upon this coin and
donned his jacket, he tapped Mr. Baffin with
his knuckle and performed the feat in
question.  "One day—me lad," he said, "I'll
show ye *my* pictures."

And on the last day of his engagement
he duly fulfilled the promise.  He had spat
upon a sovereign and donned his jacket,
just as before, and he had walked towards
the door, but half-way there he stopped and
faced his late employer.

"Look here," he said, as he quietly
divested himself of his jacket and waistcoat,
"look 'ere, ole man, you've acted very fair to
me, and now I'm gointer show ye my pictures."

With this preface he removed his shirt.

The wondering Baffin was then confronted
with a naked chest—a chest of many colours.
"The Duchess of Gainsborough," said
Mr. Prince.  "There's eight weeks' work in 'er.
Done in Ceylon.  I was soldiering in
Ceylon.  If you look round the corner you will
see a picture of Eve bein' tempted by the
serpent.  On me right arm there's 'Erod's
daughter, and on me left a photo of Jim
Sayers.  'Ow's all this for picture work?

"I was under the needle for pretty near a
twelve-month, and time I left the service
there was on'y one man in the battery as
could show the 'arf of what I can.  I always
'ad a fancy for colour work."

The model slowly resumed his clothes.
"I love a well-done chest, I do," he said.

"Not, mind you, as I am one to turn 'is
nose up at a picture on the wall, same's you
might make yesself.  Not at all.  But me
own fancy is for breast and arm work.  That
has always bin my fancy.

"And I look upon you as a very fair and
civil-spoken young man, which is why I let
you see me.  I'm a bit particular 'oo I show
my pictures to.  I'll be getting along now.
Good-night, sir."

On the threshold of the door he paused again.

"One more thing, young man.  I ain't
the sort of bloke to show me chest around;
but you've treated me decent, man to man,
as the saying goes.  And, therefore, if ever
the fancy takes you to show me to your
friends, why say the word and—'ere I am.

"I'll say good-night now."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THREE BABIES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XIV


.. class:: center large bold

   THREE BABIES

.. vspace:: 2

One of the disadvantages attaching to Dr. Brink's
profession is its stay-at-home character.
A doctor has not time to travel.  And
it is a well-known fact that travelling
improves the mind.

Think, for instance, how my doctor's mind
would relish the improvement associated with
a short spell of travel on the London,
Tilbury, and Something Railroad!  I travelled
on this system only yesterday—it is the direct
route to Dr. Brink's—and I protest that one
of my fellow-travellers—a baby—was really
*most* improving.

This baby came into our compartment
head downwards, and advertised his
displeasure with this state of things by means
at his command.

A little pale-faced girl who followed Baby
uttered remonstrances, which were answered
by the little rickety boy who carried him.
I saw and heard these things but vaguely,
because our carriage was filled with noise
and smell, and its lights were dim.  And
many people had breathed within it, and the
gentlemen about me were smoking shag
tobacco.

The little pale-faced girl expressed herself
with emphasis, coughing and gasping between
each adjective.  There was a great deal of
fringe upon her forehead and a great deal of
feather on her head, and some broken teeth
within her mouth.  She dug at her
companion with a bony elbow, as they stood
there, being supported in an upright attitude
by means of other people's knees and also
by means of a rack provided for light articles
only.  "You clumsy tyke, you!" shrilled the
girl, by way of concluding her address.

"Hee-haw!" responded the youth, with
satire.  It was made evident by certain signs,
such as the cheerfulness of his conversation
and a sort of *négligé* as to his fringe, that he
had spent his evening amid congenial
surroundings.  '"Old the kid yeself, then,"
he added.  And his companion took the child.

"What you done with them suckers?"
she then demanded; upon which the young
man brought forth bull's-eyes from his trouser
pocket.  With one of these the little girl
essayed to comfort Baby, holding the evil thing
between his toothless gums.  But Baby
continued, as before, to moan and writhe....
"I fink that beetroot ain't agreein' wiv 'im,"
said the girl.

The little rickety boy made no reply.  He
was busy, having a handful of cigarette-ends
to strip and bind anew with paper.  "Why
don't you stop 'is noise?" he at length
demanded, applying his tongue to the completed
"fag."  "Call yeself a mother?"

The fact as to Baby's authorship I had,
of course, suspected.  I perceived,
however, that our fellow-passengers did not
mind.

The girl did not allow the young man's
question to remain unanswered.  "Never
trouble," she said, "what I call myself.
What do you call yeself?  A man, I suppose.
Funny sort of man, ain't you?  More like
a ape.  More like a crab.  Fine 'usband for
a person, ain't you?  'Usband, eh?"

An elderly man at my right hand removed
his pipe and grinned.  The gentleman
opposite to him winked; and a woman in the
corner giggled rustily.  You might have
supposed them to be tickled by a sense of
the deeper irony which underlay this mother's
sarcasm.  But, as a matter of fact, the
reflections which moved them were not of this
character.  The elderly man at my right
explained his sentiments publicly.  "Puts me
in mind," he said, "of my fust.  'E were jest
sich a skinny one."

And Rickets spoke again.  "Why can't
you stop the beggar's noise?" he demanded.
"Worse nor a waggon-load o' tomcats, that
row is."

"What," demanded the girl, "d'you expect
me to do?  Put a muzzle on 'im?  Why
don't you take an' stop 'im yeself?  'Andy
enough wiv yere tongue, you are.  S'pose
you show us 'ow to do the business."

"My way o' stoppin' 'im would be easy,"
said the boy, with a stupid grin.  "I should
lay a strap acrost 'is back."

His companion reapplied the elbow
treatment.  "You do!" she squeaked between
the digs.  "You do, you little ape.  Let me
see you.  On'y let me see you.  There'd
be a strap 'crost your back blessed soon.
Not 'arf, there wouldn't.  You baboon, you!"

The girl looked helplessly at nothing,
"hushing" the baby upon her breast by
means of sudden, horrible, little jerks.  Such
a pitiful parody of rock-a-bye.  She was too
young and pale properly to know or
understand the business of mothering, which is
a difficult business to learn in your spare
time, especially when they shut you out for a
"quarter" if you are two minutes late at the
factory.  So that this London mother sucked
at a bull's-eye, and yawned, and jerked,
while the London baby lay in her arms and
moaned....  "I fink it is the beetroot,"
reiterated the mother presently.  "He looks
so cold, Sam."

"It's wind," pronounced the boy, bringing
forth a mouth-organ and carefully wiping it
upon his sleeve.  "Give 'im a tap, same's I
told you.  'Seaweed,' mates."  With which
announcement the husband and father
proceeded to wring out the melody of that
name.  We all tapped time with our feet,
and the mother sucked her bull's-eye, and
the baby moaned.

"He looks so cold," repeated the mother,
as the mouth-organ subsided.  "Give us
'Cock o' the North,' Sam."

Sam obeyed this summons with alacrity.

"If you will pardon me, young woman,"
observed the elderly man at my right hand,
having duly applauded the soloist—"if you
will pardon me, young woman, I will take
the liberty of recommending a cold key.  It
catches the breath, if you take my meanin'.
See?"

"No; I don't see," responded the mother
sharply.  It resented the preferment of
counsel.  This reflected upon its competence:
this offended its sense of dignity.  It was a
married woman.

The husband readdressed himself to his
mouth-organ.  But as he put that instrument
of melody unto his lips, the girl reached
sharply forth and stayed him.

"E—'e seems to be a-chokin', Sam," she
said.  "I think—I b'lieve—I—what you
grinnin' for, you ugly ape?  When'll we get
to Bow?  'Ow many stations?  You old
'im, Sam: I b'lieve—I—he looks so cold.  He
looks *so* cold."

"Give 'im another bull's-eye," suggested
Sam.  "There's peppermint in bull's-eyes.
Next station's Bow.  What are you grizzlin' for?"

"'E—'e looks so cold," explained the wife.
There was a flame in her eye.  A new
flame—a flame of fear and joy.  It was as though
a match had been put to her soul.  She was
learning the business.

The woman in the corner left off giggling.
She spoke to the mother.  "You run along
to bed with 'im, my gel.  Never you mind
about 'is looks.  Run along to bed with 'im,
so's 'e can be warm."

And the girl tightened her hold upon the
parcels rack; and swayed her body gently,
like a real mother.  The boy, her husband,
drew forth a series of discords from the
mouth-organ.  But she did not scream at
him as before.  She stood there, dumbly,
rocking her baby like a real mother.

And the baby did not moan.  The baby
lay there on her bosom, silent and strangely
still.

Then, with a jerk, our train pulled up.
And the girl let go of the rack-rail and
stumbled out.  "Come on, Sam," she said,
"we gotter 'urry.  'E looks so cold."

"Wait till I light me fag, then," said the
boy.  He struck a match on his boot-heel,
and followed her, whistling cheerfully.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



Our train moved on.  And the elderly
man at my right hand imparted a secret
to me.

"That's their fust," he said.

I nodded, patiently.

"'E lay quiet enough when the music
started.  Did you notice?"

"Yes," I said, "I noticed."

"They're funny devils," said the man.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`INGRATES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XV


.. class:: center large bold

   INGRATES

.. vspace:: 2

"DR. BRINK.  Important.

"DEAR DOCTOR,—Ther is a lady keeps on
coming in a motor car, and her names is
Mrs. Dudenay-Jones, and she is always at our
place, and we think she 'as got a good
intention, but my husband says he has had enough,
and he thinks if we was to speak to you then
perhaps you was to speak to her so perhaps
she would stop it.  She is a real lady, and
always civil and polite, but my husband says
we've had ennough.  His mates has got to
hear about it, and they call him Gordon
Bennett, and he is a hardworking man.

"It is my daughter Kate she takes the
interest in, the same what you give the
light-brown mixture to for loosing her appetite.
She wants to put her in a home at Margate,
but my daughter has got a good home of her
own, and she do not want to be beholding.
And if a person goes to Margate you always
bring back vermin, and there is enough work
to keep a decent home without anybody need
go to Margate and bring back vermin.  And
further and more, my Kate 'as got a bank
book of her own, thank God, and when she
wants to take a fortnight she can do it
independent, and her young fellar the same, him
what has the bottles of red from you for spots
on the face.

"And so it is kindly to be hoped as you
will kindly talk about it to the lady, you being
reguly engaged by us for all these year, and
knowing well that we are hardworking and
independent, and not the kind as would wish
to be beholding.  And she come 4 times a
week from Sat., and now it is only Tue., and
she has been twice.  It is no wonder as
my daughter loose her appetite.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

\  "And thanking with compts,
\    "Your faithl,
\      "SARAH BENNET,
\    13, Markham Street, over against the Dairy.

.. vspace:: 1

"P.S.—Boy got 6d.  Please send a
bot. light brown for my daughter.  Did my
daughter ought to drink a wineglass full of
vineger?  They tell me it is good.

"The lady has always acted civil, so I
hope you'll be the same.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent

"\S. BENNETT."

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



It was this missive, reaching the doctor at
his breakfast table, which caused a beautiful
philanthropist to enter his surgery at
tea-time.  She came in immediate response to
the doctor's invitation; she came with a rush,
having been carried hither by her
80-h.p. 8-cylinder light touring car.

"And, oh, *dear* Dr. Brink," she said,
"how simply charming it is to meet you!
One has so often read your bright little
speeches about this shocking poverty.  One
simply yearns to do something.  How one
envies you your strength, your power, your
splendid opportunities.  How you must *revel*
in your work here, Doctor!  It must be
simply charming!"

"About as charming," said the doctor,
"as keeping pigs and sleeping with them."

The beautiful philanthropist broke into
appreciative titters.  "*Pigs*, Doctor!" she
cried, with the archest look.  "*Pigs*!
He! he!  And you call yourself a Socialist!  Of
course, I'm not a Socialist myself.  One's
husband cannot be expected to approve of
such extremes as that.  But one need not be
a Socialist in order to feel sorry for them.
Now, need one, Doctor?  But when one is
a woman, it is all so difficult.  Oh, Doctor,
can one do *nothing*?"

"One *can*," replied the doctor; "but one
won't.  That, madame, is the difficulty."

"I don't quite understand you," said the
lady.

"You ask me," explained the doctor,
"whether one can do nothing.  I reply that
one can: that this is all we ask of one—to
do nothing."

"To do *nothing*?  *D-o-c-t-o-r*!"

"It does sound revolutionary, perhaps,"
admitted the doctor.  "But it is really true.
We ask one to do *nothing*.  We ask one to
be so kind as to sit at home and draw threads
out of teacloths.  And to draw cheques.
But not to leave one's blameless hearth.
We ask one to keep away.  The pig-stye is
a dirty pig-stye, and it's got to be cleaned
by dirty people.  Nice people—manicured
people—-are best out of it.  See?"

"I see that you want to be rude," said the
lady, "but I don't——  What is it all about,
Doctor?"

"This," said Dr. Brink.  And he gave
her Mrs. Bennett's letter.  And she read it
silently.  And she stood up.

"Really, Doctor," she observed, "one
doesn't quite know what to say.  I'm sorry,
I suppose.  I will write and apologise to
Mrs. Bennett.  I'll go home and draw
threads.

"Don't trouble to get up," she continued,
as the doctor rose from his chair.  "Don't
trouble to get up.  You are quite the rudest
man I've ever met.  Please don't trouble to
get up."

She reached the door, but paused upon its
threshold and turned to him again.  "You
are quite the rudest man I've ever met," she
said again.  "Quite the rudest....  I'll
send you some money for your pigs."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BAFFIN'S FIND`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XVI


.. class:: center large bold

   BAFFIN'S FIND

.. vspace:: 2

Baffin came home one evening in a state of
wild-eyed exaltation.

He had found *the* face for his "Mist
Maiden."  Its name was Prudence Croft.

It was coming to sit next day, and certain
brothers of the brush were coming also to
inspect and criticise Prudence.

Baffin's panegyrics quite interested me.
I invited myself to join the party and my
invitation was accepted.

So that I first saw Prudence under
romantic circumstances.  She was sitting on a
sugar-box with her bodice off.  The
combination of her charms and a red flannel
under-garment was startling to the eye.

Prudence was occupied, it seemed, in a
proceeding called "sitting for the neck and
shoulders."  The process was not a restful
one, for Prudence had "nerves" and "fidgets"
and a constant flow of anecdote.  Mr. Baffin
made free with expressions of entreaty,
disapprobation, and despair.

For myself, I sat and stared at Prudence,
being consumed with a great wonder.  It
wasn't the flannel which provoked this
wonder.  Red flannel is a hideous material, and
highly moral and depressing at that.  And I
am sure that the spectacle of a poor, anæmic
rat of an artist's model seated in "half-costume"
on a sugar-box is not (in itself) an
attractive one.  But Prudence fascinated me
as no human being had fascinated me for
many days.

If any of you have felt the poignant,
horrible appeal of Ophelia during the "mad
scene," you will know how I felt about
Prudence.  Her spare, consumptive body
was crowned by a neck and face and head as
beautiful as any that ever were.  But it was
a beauty that was monstrous in its perfection,
and that, therefore, hurt like some
monstrosity of ugliness.

Prudence's beauty was the beauty of
imbecility—that which Rossetti loved so much
to draw.  To look at her for long was like
looking at some exotic, over-nurtured lily in a
hot-house: one felt sick and restless and
unmanned, and fell to longing for some robuster
blossom on a hedgerow.

She had the genuine Rossetti neck—a
thing which rose and swelled and died away
in exquisite, maddening curves.  She had the
genuine Rossetti nose—straight, and small,
and delicate, and sinful.  She had hair, a full
arm's length, that crept and clung and strayed
and floated like the tendrils of a vine.  She
had wide, inscrutable eyes: wondering as a
child's, yet filled with an awful something
that was not of childhood.  She had, above
all else, a mouth which stung you with its
beauty—blood-red lips that were open and
moist and eager, like a lover's wound.

To all these charms she added the mind
and speech of a mud-lark: the intelligence of
a backward infant.

"Ow, Mr. Baffin," she was saying when I
saw her first, "ow, Mr. Baffin, you *do* frighten
me when you swear so.  I *will* keep still: I
will, reely.  I won't fidget or move or
talk—I won't even breathe—for a 'ole ten minnits.
On'y I must tell you about me an' my sister
an' the penny-in-the-slot machine.  Mother
give us tuppence, see, 'cos it was washin' day,
an'—— ... Ow, now you're angry, Mr. Baffin.
Down't be angry, Mr. Baffin.  I am
a wicked girl, I know I am, an' I *will* keep
still: an' Gawd knows what's to become of
me when my mother dies, an' everybody 'ates
me, an' I *am* un'eppy."

The remainder of Prudence's observations
were mingled with the sound of noisy sobs.

Mr. Baffin, that eminent painter, put down
his palette and brush.  "I'll wait," he said,
"until you are dry again."

"Down't be engry with me, Mr. Baffin,"
moaned Prudence.  "I'll be a good gel now—I
will, reely—if on'y yew wown't be engry
with me."

"Very well, then," answered Baffin.  "You
can begin to be a good girl now.  I 'm not angry
with you *any* more, and if only you keep still
for five little minutes while I get in the curves
of the chin, I'll let you talk and wriggle as
much as you like for a whole ten minutes.
Now hold your head up."

So Prudence ceased her lamentations, and
held her head up—for five-and-thirty seconds.
At the end of that period an interesting
thought occurred to her.

"It'll be Christmas in four months," she
observed, wriggling delightedly.  "I'm
gownter give my muvver something *sow* nice fur
Christmas' I'm gownter give 'er a——  Ow,
Mr. Baffin, you're angry with me agen.  I *am*
a bad gel, I know I am; but——"

"You can leave off helping me for a minute
or two," said Baffin quietly.  "I've got to do
some scraping here, so you can have the
wriggle now.  What is this about Christmas?"

"I got two guineas comin' to *me* fur
Christmas—per'aps.  I sat to Mr. Baker fur
'is 'Birth of Wonder,' an' when 'e sells it 'e
is gointer gimme two guineas!"

Baffin looked at me, and I nodded in
appreciation of his glance.  Everybody
knows, of course, that Mr. Wilberforce
Baker, the eminent Academician, disposed of
his "Birth of Wonder" last June.  It was
his tenth annual contribution to that
remarkable collection of pictures now being formed
under a bequest of the late
Mr. Bantry—Mr. Wilberforce Baker himself being a
trustee of the fund bequeathed for that
purpose.  Baffin excommunicated that
distinguished artist in dumb show.

"I shouldn't count on the two guineas,"
was all he said to Prudence.  "... How
long is it since you sat for Mr. Baker?"

"Ow, *ever* so lung!" answered Prudence.
"Down't know why 'tis, I'm sure, on'y I
down't seem to be able to get now sittin's
*now*'ow.  They all say I'm pretty an' that;
an' they all rave about me neck: an' they
all tell me to call agen; but nothink ever
comes of it.  Can't make it out at *all*, I
can't?"

"You are lacking in the quality of perception,
my dear," explained Baffin.

"Beg your pardon?" queried Prudence.

"I say," repeated Baffin, "that you are
lacking—that you are damned slow at seeing
things!"

"Ow, Mr. Baffin, you *are* a naughty man.
Fancy usin' such wicked words.  My mother
says it is on'y bad people what uses words
like that.  My mother cut 'er finger yesterday,
makin' toast.  We got the drains up in
*our* 'ouse.  Ugly things, them little kittens,
ain't they?  I 'ates 'em when they're crawly,
like those."

Prudence, making a wry face, pointed to
a basket beside the sugar-box.  This
contained a family of illegitimate kittens which
James had adopted out of Christian charity.

"I *'ate* cats," continued Prudence in her
childish, sing-song voice.  "I ate all animals.
I like goin' to the theayter, though.  I like
goin' to church too.  I like——"

She would have provided us, doubtless,
with an exhaustive list of her enthusiasms;
but the door of the studio opened, and gave
entrance to those brothers of the brush whose
coming was expected.

They looked upon Prudence, and were staggered.

"Where in Hell did you find her?" they
inquired of Baffin, and discharged a volley
of most wonderful expletives in evidence of
their surprise and appreciation and envy.
And they hanked her off the sugar-box, and
turned her this way and that way, inspecting
her "form" in much the same manner as
that adopted by farmers when buying horseflesh.

"Chin up, please; more to the right.
Now to the left.  Ah!  Get over there,
under that top light.  Profile, please.  Ah!
How about shoulders: salt-cellars, I expect;
they always have.  Pull that thing down.
Ah!  Not so bad as I feared.  No good for
the figure, but—but that neck!  Trust old
Baffin to find 'em, eh, John?"

There was to me something inexplicably
delightful in the utter sexlessness of this
admiration.  To say the least, it was ungallant
and sane.  And Prudence evidently shared
this feeling.  The childish vanity in her eyes
was unmistakable, and she walked back to
her throne on the sugar-box with a strut that
real queens might have envied.

Baffin tried to resume work on the
picture; but Prudence's gifts of anecdote were
as yet unexhausted, and she found it
necessary to tell what Mr. Wilberforce Baker had
said to Mr. Jerningham Jukes, and what
Mr. J. J. had said to Mr. W. B., and what
she had said to both of them, and what
her mother had suffered under chloroform.
And she giggled, and she wriggled, and she
apologised, and she wept, and she wriggled
and she giggled again.  And Comrade of
Brush No. 1 observed to Comrade of Brush
No. 2 that this sort of thing would not be
good enough at any price.  Comrade No. 2
sniffed assentingly.  "And what the blazes,"
he inquired, "does she want to wear that
beastly flannel for?"

"Ah!" grunted No. 1.  "I say, Baffin,
why does she wear red flannel?  Makes
chaps sick."

Baffin referred the matter to headquarters.
"What do you dress yourself up like a sore
throat for, Prudence?" he inquired.  "Why
do you wear red flannel?"

Prudence's eyes were wide with amazement.
"Ow, Mr. Baffin," she tittered, "yew
*are* a funny men! ... I got pretty things
at 'owm.  But what's the good o' wearin' 'em
out in the studios?"

"You are lacking, my dear girl, in the
quality of perception."  Baffin uttered these
words with an oracular air.

The Comrades made their adieux.  "Not
if she *paid* me to paint her," whispered No. 1,
with a jerk of the head towards Prudence.
"But, Lord, *what* a profile!  A tricky man
could work wonders with that head."

"Pity she spoils herself," added Comrade
No. 2.  And they departed.

"Hear what those gentlemen said?"
demanded Baffin, as the door closed....  "You
are too talkative, and you giggle too much,
and you wriggle too much.  And you should
leave off red flannel, and make yourself
nice.  You could make a lot of money if you
took care of yourself.  Think of the nice
things you could give your mother then!"

"My mother's got a abscess," moaned
Prudence, "an' I believe she'll die, an' then
I'll starve, 'cause I'm a good-for-nothin' gel,
an' I wown't sit still, an'—an' me figure's too
flat.  But I'm learnin' to croshy, an' I *will*
be better.  Shall I come termorrer, Mr. Baffin?"

"Come on Friday," answered Baffin.
"And," he added, "come in a nice,
unwrigglesome frame of mind.  You shall have
cream and tea and muffins if you are a good girl."

"Ooer!" cried Prudence.  "I like muffins.
And I like cream, and I like claret...  'Ere"—her
face suddenly grew grave, grave as a
child's at play with toys—"'ere, Mr. Baffin,
do you believe in auctioneers?"

"Do I believe in *what*?" shouted Baffin.

"Auctioneers," repeated Prudence, with a
pout.  "Don't be angry with me; I won't
ask agen, if you don't like.

"On'y ... what you want to look at me
so queer for?  I can't 'elp bein' silly.  I *am*
silly.  On'y ... I wonder if a auctioneer is
the sort of man that anybody ought to trust?"





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.. _`MR. WEST'S WIFE`:

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   XVII


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   MR. WEST'S WIFE

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"Is this the young man?" said Mrs. West,
of Mulberry Street, sitting up in bed and
shading a very white face with a very hot
hand.  "Oh, I daresay 'e'll do!  'Tain't much,
I'm told.  No doubt 'e'll manage it."

That task which Mrs. West, of Mulberry
Street, thus coldly confided to my
management was the witnessing of her will.
Dr. Brink had volunteered to execute this
document for her; and a sniggering youth had
haled me from the snugness of the doctor's
waiting chariot to come upstairs and sign.

After my formal presentation to Mrs. West,
there was an interval of silence,
broken only by the scratchy-scratchy of the
doctor's pen, as he hastily constructed a
form of bequest.

I employed this interval in taking stock of
the testator's estate, the whole of which was
contained within her room.  There were two
bedsteads, one (a little folding thing) being
devoted to the uses of the sniggering boy
who, be it stated, figured in the document
which was now being prepared as sole
legatee.  The other bedstead—that on which
the patient lay—was obviously a veteran
bedstead which had seen much of the world.
It was a circumstantial, ponderous bedstead,
and wore still a pompous air, although its
ironwork was rusted and its lacquered parts
had quite lost their complexion.  This
bedstead also bore a superstructure designed to
carry a canopy; but all that hung there now
were certain moth-eaten petticoats.  There
was a chest of drawers among the assets,
and a cork model of the Tower of London,
and a wash-basin and two soap dishes, and
two dumb clocks and the mechanism of
another, and a work of art designed in
multi-coloured wools, and having reference to the
parable of the fig tree.

"Make it all over to 'im," said Mrs. West;
"all what I, the undersigned, may die
possessed of.  I won't 'ave 'is stuck-up sister
touch a stick of it.  'E's bin a good boy to
me, Bert 'as.  It'll be a 'ome for 'im.

"It's bin a near touch for me, what,
Doctor?" pursued the testator.

"Pooh!" murmured the doctor, still
writing rapidly, "you're not going this time."

"I know that," said the woman.  "Not
as I take any notice what *you* say—you an'
your soft soap.  But I know in *meself* as it's
all right this time.  On'y you never know
what's gointer 'appen with the next attack,
do you, now?  And it'll be a 'ome for
the boy.  'E's gettin' good money at the dye
works now.  'E'll be all right if 'e's got a
'ome.  You ain't puttin' it so's *she* can touch
a share, I 'ope, Doctor?"

"Who's she?"

"'Er what I spoke about—what calls
'erself my daughter.  'Er what's married
into the perlice.  'Er what's ashamed of 'er
own father!"

"I am putting it," explained the doctor,
"so that you leave all of which you may die
possessed to your son Albert.  It's quite
definite.  You may sign now.  This gentleman
and myself will witness your signature."

"Lift me up, then," said Mrs. West.

She signed her name in a shaky but
accomplished hand.  "Be careful, young
man," she admonished me, when my turn
arrived.

All the formalities being concluded,
Mrs. West sank back upon her pillow with a grunt
of contentment.  "It'll be a 'ome for the
boy," she said.  "And if 'is father *should*
turn up——"

"Has he got a father, then?" questioned
the doctor, rather, I think, with the object
of displaying an intelligent interest than from
any genuine curiosity.  You *are* apt to lose
your genuine curiosity when this sort of
confidence is thrust upon you ten times daily.

"Got a father!" echoed Mrs. West, with
evident amazement at the doctor's ignorance.
"Ain't you 'eard, then?"

"Heard what?" demanded Dr. Brink.

"About my 'usband.  The Midland Malt
Comp'ny, you know!'

"Well, really now," replied the doctor,
looking painfully confused, "upon my word,
I *don't* know."

"You must go about your business in a
very funny way, then," reflected Mrs. West.
"It's bin the talk o' Limus.  'E done 'em in
for eight 'undred quid—'im an' another man."

"Done 'em in!" repeated the doctor.
"Who?  What?"

"The Midland Malt Company, same's I
told you," expounded Mrs. West.  "'E was
night watchman, Mr. West was—'im an'
another man—an' they took eight 'undred
quid.  'E got away with 'arf of it, too.  The
perlice 'as bin investigatin' ever since."

Dr. Brink still looked a little puzzled.
"You mean, in fact—do I understand that
your husband stole eight hundred pounds?"

"Mr. West an' another man—yes," responded
the woman, quite without feeling.
"'Im an' 'is mate, they done in eight 'undred.
On'y 'is mate, I'm sorry to say, 'e never got
'is share.  The perlice got that.  They got
'im, too.  But they never got Mr. West."

"How did he escape?" demanded the
doctor.  And I held my breath.  I wondered
that the desperado's wife could talk so quietly.
"How did he escape?" asked the doctor again.

"Mr. West?" queried the woman.  "Oh,"
she said, with great simplicity, "'e went away.

"It was like this yere," said Mr. West's
wife:—

"I was asleep, you see—in this bed yere,
an' it was dark—all in the middle o' the
night, you see.  An' he struck a match an'
he woke me up.

"'What's that?' I says, with a start like, an'
when I see it was Mr. West I lay down again.

"'Ann,' 'e says, 'wake up.  I've got some
money 'ere,' 'e says.  An' 'e lights a bit o'
candle, an' I sits up, an' there on the table—that
very table—there was a 'eap o' sovereigns
what 'e'd rolled out of a sack.  'I've
took these from the company.  I'm goin'
away,' says Mr. West.

"An' 'e gets into 'is Sunday shoot an' 'e
shaves 'isself.  An' 'e puts a lot o' the money
more'n four 'undred pounds—into a little
brown bag, an' 'e puts the rest in the coal
cupboard.  'The perlice 'll come for that in
the mornin',' says Mr. West.  'Let 'em find
it there.  An' you,' 'e says, 'you don't know
nothink.'

"'An' what about you?' I says.

"'I'm goin' away,' says Mr. West.  'I'll
write you when it's safe.  Give my love to
Rosa.'

"Rosa is my sister's niece, what 'e'd always
carried on with—innocent like, in a jokin'
sort o' way, if you understand me.

"'An' remember,' says Mr. West to me
again, 'as you don't know a thing.  They'll
find the money in the coal 'ole, so don't you
try to stop 'em.'

"An' then Mr. West, 'e kissed me same
as usual, an' 'e blowed out the light.  An' 'e
went away."

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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"I suppose that the police turned up all
right?" suggested Dr. Brink, when he had
duly considered this simple story.

"The perlice," responded the woman, who
had talked more than was good for her, and
now looked paler, if possible, than before—"the
perlice was very rude an' rough to me.
They found the money in the coal cupboard,
an' they took it away.  But that didn't satisfy
them.  It on'y seemed to aggerivate them.
An' night after night they come round 'ere,
an' they was very rough to me.  But they
ain't got 'old o' Mr. West.

"'E's bin gone a year now, all but five
weeks.  An' they ain't caught 'im, an' they
never will.  I believe it would please that
daughter o' mine—the wicked, vain, unfeelin'
thing—if they *was* to catch 'm.

"Mr. West, 'e 'aven't wrote me, nor I
don't suppose 'e will.  Mr. West is a careful
sort.  I *did* send round the other day to a
place where I thought there might be noos
o' 'im; but there wasn't no noos o' 'im.

"Not that I worry meself about *'im*, if
you understand.  Mr. West would be all
right, wherever it was.  'E's the sort that
kin take care o' 'isself, 'e is.  It's the
boy—young Bert—I'm thinkin' of.  Mr. West
would be very cut up, 'e would, to think as
Bert should come to any 'arm."

This reference to the nice paternal feeling
of Mr. West affected us both strangely.

"But," continued Mrs. West, "I'm leavin'
'im the 'ome, at all events.  Bert can't come
to no pertickler 'arm so long's 'e's got a
home.

"Mr. West 'isself was always a rare one
for 'ome.  The boy takes arter 'im."





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.. _`THREE DIALOGUES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XVIII


.. class:: center large bold

   THREE DIALOGUES

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The Mission of the Healer is a fine and a
noble one, and I have often confided this
original thought to my friend Doctor Brink,
who declares that such confidences are
helpful to him.  And I now desire to record,
without comment, three dialogues which
drifted in to me at intervals one Sunday,
when I was sitting on the doctor's gas-stove.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center

   I.—MORNING

VISITOR: And 'e's ser fretful, Doctor, and
'is breathin's ser sick, and 'e don't appear to
'ave no appetite.

DOCTOR: Bring him to the light here.  I
just want—ah!

VISITOR: I give 'im a soothin' powder,
too, last night—a large one.  I bought it at
the chimmis.  They're supposed to be very
good, them Parker's soothin' powders.

DOCTOR: I'm afraid that this is rather
serious.

VISITOR: Down't you think they're very
good, Doctor—them Parker's soothin' powders?

DOCTOR: I'm afraid there's not much
doubt that this child has got diphtheria.

VISITOR: I bin very careful with 'im,
Doctor.  I give 'im a soothin' powder.

DOCTOR: Where do you live?

VISITOR: Fourteen Mulberry Street.  It's
next to the oil shop.

DOCTOR: How many rooms?

VISITOR: Was you gointer send 'im away
then, Doctor?  Oh, down't send 'im away?

DOCTOR: How many rooms?

VISITOR: Down't send 'im away, Doctor!

DOCTOR: I haven't said anything about
sending him away—so far.  Answer my
questions like a sensible woman.  You want
him to get better, don't you?

VISITOR: I down't want you to send 'im
away.  I kin look arter 'im meself.  There's
on'y six of us, an' we got three rooms, an
the other two boys kin sleep with me mother
in the kitchen?  Down't send him away!

DOCTOR: I'm very much afraid,
Mrs.—ah—Mrs. Cooper, that it doesn't quite rest
with me whether the boy is taken away or
not.  He's got diphtheria, that's certain, and
I'm legally compelled to report the case.  It
is for the Public Health people to decide
whether they take the boy or leave him.  *I*
think you ought to be glad to let him go.
He'll be well looked after.

VISITOR: Down't send 'im away!

DOCTOR: But why not, Mrs. Cooper?
You want him to get better, don't you.
You can't possibly nurse him yourself.  You
have the other children to attend to, and the
home to take care of, and your husband——

VISITOR: Yus, an' there's me 'usband, too.
'E won't let you take 'im.

DOCTOR (*very patiently*): I've said before
that I don't want to take him.  It is the
health officers who will take him if he's taken
at all.  My duty is done when I've reported
the case.

VISITOR: What you wanter tell 'em for?
What you wanter put the little chap away for?

DOCTOR: I'm telling them because I shall
be punished if I don't.  But I think it's very
foolish and ungrateful of you to make this
fuss.  I only want to do the best I can for
you and your baby.  You want him to get
better, don't you?

VISITOR: Down't send 'im away!  Let me
send me 'usband round to talk to you.  Never
mind about the punishment an' that, Doctor.
My 'usband won't tell nobody.  I'd like you
to talk to me 'usband, Doctor.

DOCTOR: And I would rather like to talk
to your husband.  I can explain things more
clearly to him, perhaps.  Send him round at
once.

VISITOR: Very likely it ain't the diftheria
at all, Doctor.  I'm sure me 'usband won't
'ave 'im took away.


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   II.—MIDDAY

DOCTOR: And what can I do for *you*?

VISITOR: I come round yere to talk about
the boy Cooper.  I'm 'is father.  The child
ain't to be took away, see?  'E ain't got
diftheria at all.

DOCTOR: I'm sorry to have to differ from
your diagnosis, Mr. Cooper, but the child
*has* got diphtheria.  And I'm very much
afraid that he's got to be taken away.  It
doesn't rest with me; I merely have to
report——

VISITOR: If you wanter know the troof,
Doctor, we've called in Doctor Popham.
See?  And Doctor Popham don't believe
as the boy 'ave got diftheria at all.  And 'e's
sent the boy some physic.  And 'e's gointer
'ave another look at 'im termorrer.  And
we've took the case outer your 'ands, see?
So you needn't trouble to send in no reports
to nobody.  That child ain't bein' took away.
You needn't trouble to interfere no more.
The boy is stoppin' 'ome, along of 'is lawful
parents.  See?

DOCTOR: Did Doctor Popham examine
the child's throat?

VISITOR: What's that gotter do with you?
The boy ain't got diftheria.  And 'e ain't
gotter be moved.

DOCTOR: It has got this much to do with
me—that I *did* examine the child's throat.
I'm not suggesting to you that I think he has
diphtheria; I'm telling you that he jolly well
*has* got it.  I *know*.  When you go home
you can see for yourself.  Look in the little
chap's throat and you will see a round white
patch about the size of a sixpence.  That,
my friend, is diphtheria.

VISITOR: The boy ain't gotter be moved.

DOCTOR:  That's not my business.
Somebody else will decide about that.  But I
don't suppose he'll let you murder the child,
even if you are its father.

VISITOR: 'E's my child, ain't 'e?  And 'e's
in my 'ouse.  Nobody ain't gointer take my
child away without I tells 'em to.  See?

DOCTOR: It isn't only this one child we
have to consider.  What about your two
other children?  What about all the other
children in the house?

VISITOR: Let other people look after their
own, same's what I'm willing to do fur *my*
own.  A man's got a right to 'is own children
and nobody ain't gointer touch no child o'
mine without I lets 'em.

DOCTOR: You stand on your rights, do you?

VISITOR: That's it.  All the corpuscular
'ealth orficers in England ain't gointer take
my lawful child away from me.  See?

DOCTOR: I don't know whether it's ever
been mentioned to you before, but you are
rather by way of being a Social Problem.

VISITOR: It ain't your place to be saucy.
I know me rights, and neither you nor any
man is going to tell me as it's right to
rob a person of their lawful child.  And I
don't want none of your sneers nor I don't
want none of your nicknames.  You're out o'
this job, see?  I've called in Dr. Popham.
You and yere Latin nicknames!

DOCTOR: I can put it into English if you
like.  You're a pudding-headed fool.  Good-day.

VISITOR: What about my child?  Are
you gointer promise to leave 'im alone?

DOCTOR: Of course I am.  You can kill
your whole family for all I care.  I've
sent in my report to the authorities, and
there's an end of it.  Good-day.

VISITOR: You've reported, 'ave ye?  Oh,
very well, then.  We'll see.  That boy ain't
gotter be shifted.  See?

DOCTOR: All right.  Get out.

VISITOR: We've called in Dr. Popham,
and 'e's weighed *you* up.  See?  The boy
ain't got diftheria at all.  Nor 'e ain't gotter
be shifted.

DOCTOR (*in simpler terms*): May Heaven
administer to your requirements.  Get out.


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   III.—EVENING

VISITOR: If you please, Doctor, I come round
ere about the boy Cooper.  I'm the father,
sir.  We want you to come round and see
'im.  'E's very bad, sir.

DOCTOR: Made rather fools of yourselves,
haven't you?

VISITOR: We ain't give 'im none o'
Dr. Popham's medsun, sir; not a drop.  We
want you to come round, Doctor.  'E's very bad.

DOCTOR: All right.  I'll be round in half
an hour.

VISITOR: Can't you come round at once,
sir?  'E's very bad.  'E don't seem able to
swaller, sir, and there's lumps in 'is neck.
And the man from the 'ealth orfice ain't ser
much as bin near us.

DOCTOR: That's your fault.  I told him
you were going to make a fuss, and I suppose
he's busy and has put it off until to-morrow.

VISITOR: Can't you make 'im come to-night,
Doctor?  The boy is very bad.  And
one of the other boys is sneezin', and the
other one 'e says there is a funny feelin' in
'is thumb.  Can't you come at once, Doctor?

DOCTOR: Wait one minute, then, till I've
written these prescriptions.

VISITOR: Go' bless you, Doctor.  We ain't
ser much as looked at Dr. Popham's physic.
We ain't, straight.  The boy is very bad.
'Is face 'as gone a very funny colour.  'Ot
this evenin', ain't it?  Much obliged to you,
I'm sure, Doctor.  Think you kin put it right?
The boy *is* bad.  It's a 'ot evenin'.  What
they playin' at in the 'ealth orfice,
Doctor—leavin' a man's child to die?





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CURING THE CURER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XIX


.. class:: center large bold

   CURING THE CURER

.. vspace:: 2

"Yes, Aunt Isobel," said James—"I quite
agree with you.  The silly old duffer ought
certainly to take an anti-something.  He's as
down-hearted and high-tempered as possible."

"Certainly," quoth Aunt Isobel—a thin
and very definite lady, with a wire-woven
manner—"*something* ought to be done.
Your father is looking very unwell.  I
attribute his condition to overwork and
undernourishment."

"Nourishment's all right, Aunt Isobel,"
protested James.  "He eats enough to fill
an ox."

Aunt Isobel winced and raised an arresting
forearm, as if to ward off some physical
menace.  "You really do employ the most
trying phrases, my dear," she said.
"Personally, I am a stronger believer in
Anti-Nervo.  Two tablets, three times a
day—one before each meal, and one after.  It is
really a quite remarkable remedy.  Poverty
of blood is one of a great number of
complaints for which the makers themselves
especially recommend it.  Poverty of blood
is, of course, your father's chief trouble.  He
is much under-nourished."

"You ought to see him walk into a steak,"
said James.

"If," pursued Aunt Isobel, "he really
does receive a proper quantity of food, then
I'm inclined to fear that it is food of poor
quality.  If, indeed, both the quality *and*
quantity of his food should prove to be
adequate, I can only suppose that he is
suffering from insufficient sleep.  Or is it
brain fag?  It *might*, of course, be liver or
weak heart.  Or some secret trouble,
perhaps.  Anti-Nervo is strongly recommended
for all these complaints.  He must certainly
be made to take some Anti-Nervo."

"He must certainly be made to do
something violent," admitted James.  "He's
certainly got hold of a most phenomenal hump."

Aunt Isobel was again forced to push off
imaginary assailants.  "Where *did* you learn,
my dear," she inquired, in a poignant sort
of tone, "to use such fearfully emancipated
expressions?  Another remedy in which I
have the greatest possible faith is
Sal-Toxine.  Do you know Sal-Toxine?  But,
of course, you don't; it is quite a novel
remedy.  I myself have only—why, here is
your dear father."

And here, indeed, that gentleman was;
wearing the gloomiest possible air, and a
very dirty collar.  He blundered heavily
through the door, and cast himself heavily
upon a chair.  Having disembarrassed
himself of a hat and a stethoscope, he
delivered an original and entertaining monologue.

"May my bones burn in hell," he said,
"if I conduct this profitable enterprise for
another damned minute.  I've got the largest
and dirtiest and sickest collection of common
drunks in London.  I've got all the Phthisics
from here to Limehouse.  Every pre-ordained
son of a witch of a bricklayer within hail of
the parish has broken his bandy leg, and
called me in to set it.  Every single woman
that ever worked in a jam factory is
'expecting' to-morrow, and there isn't a pint of
milk or a handful of coal between six of 'em.
I haven't slept a wink since yesterday
morning, or sat down since last night.  I haven't
had a wash since Monday, or a drink since
last April.  I'm fed up."

This speech was listened to by James
with polite attention, but perfect calm.  Aunt
Isobel, upon the other hand, was unable to
suppress a loudish shudder.

"Hullo!" cried Dr. Brink, with evident
surprise.  "Here's Isobel.  How are you,
Isobel?  Hear you've changed parsons
again.  What a rabid young flirt you are."

"We have been discussing the subject of
your deplorable poverty of health," responded
the flirt.  "We have decided that you must
be made to take a tonic—Anti-Nervo, say,
or Sal-Toxine.  We have the very greatest
faith in them, especially Anti-Nervo.  You
take two tablets, three times daily: one
before and one after each meal."

"Can't I have one in my bath, as well?"
asked Doctor Brink.

"The directions," responded Aunt Isobel,
"are very explicit.  Two tablets three times
daily—one before and one after each meal.
It is a wonderful remedy.  My own doctor
at Chiswick—a *really* clever man—is
perfectly charmed with it.  He has analysed it
several times.  He has the most perfectly
refined voice that I have ever met with in a
man.  *He* takes his profession quite seriously.
He is an M.B. of Edinburgh, and a surgeon
as well, and they say he is quite the youngest
man who has ever attempted the two things
at once.  He plays the banjo most delightfully."

"Good at cracking nuts, too, isn't he?"
suggested the doctor in a tired voice.

"Of course," continued Aunt Isobel, "we
don't want to insist upon Anti-Nervo if
there is any other genuine tonic in which
you have more faith.  I know many
extremely intelligent people who simply swear
by Sal-Toxine; and then, of course, there is
Pherantidote.  I have heard that Our Queen
uses that.  What is your opinion of Pherantidote?"

"Well," responded Doctor Brink, "it's a
dam small bottle for one-and-eight.  Do you
really think I'm seedy, Isobel?"

"We are both agreed that you require——"

"What I require, old girl," said Doctor
Brink, rising slowly to his feet, "is a job in
the City.  I want to try a new system of
exploitation.  My game's too deadly simple:
I'm tired of pumping aniline dye and water
into hungry bellies for a thousand a year.
I'm tired of the filthy working-man—tired of
seeing him so close.  He smells of beer,
and his hands are so cold.  His eyes are
awful, and they give me nightmares....  I
want to kill the cad more profitably.  I want
to start a trouser-button works, or some
chutney mills, or something.  I can't stand
it any longer—this deadly boredom: this
watching the dumb beast die."

"Well," said Aunt Isobel, "I can seriously
recommend you to pin your faith to
Anti-Nervo.  You take two tablets three times
daily."





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.. _`MILK!`:

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   XX


.. class:: center large bold

   MILK

.. vspace:: 2

I have long been interested in Mr. Binney.
He is the only milkman I have ever seen
who looks any different from other milkmen.
His very voice is different; for, whereas other
milkmen are sudden and shrill of utterance,
Mr. Binney has cultivated a profounder, more
scholarly method, and he has a voice of deep
bass quality.

I have sat at an upper window of the
Bovingdon Street dispensary and watched
this tradesman closely when he has been
conducting milkcans to the houses opposite.
I have observed his slow, deliberate tread, so
thoroughly in keeping with the fulness of his
girth and stature.  I have noted his extensive
face, so plain and wise and red.  I have
remarked his drooping eyelid and crimson neck,
his scant white locks, and row upon row of
chins—features insignificant in themselves,
but, when combined, imparting to his
countenance a strangely judicial character.

This effect of power (such is the individuality
of the man) receives additional strength
even from the trivial business of his calling.
Mr. Binney, when handing a milkcan through
some parlour window, looks less like a
milkman than any other imaginable human thing.
He handles the pewter vessel gingerly,
daintily, as if it were a precious casket, and
a sort of trembling eagerness is sometimes
to be observed in his demeanour.

There is nothing commercial in Mr. Binney's manner.

He does not seem to sell his milk.  He
bestows it.

To see him gingerly proffering his battered
cans is to see, as it were, an earthly
Providence—a conscious benefactor, distributing
Nature's bounty to her helpless children.

He accepts the copper tokens which reward
his ministrations with an air of gracious calm
as far removed from any taint of barter as
are his actions.  You might suppose him to
be a priest receiving offertory.

The same spirit of gentleness distinguishes
his method of proclamation.  Mr. Binney
does not use the cry of "Milk-ho!" which
his fellow-milkmen favour.  I have already
stated that the tone of his voice is deeper
and more profound than that which they
employ.  Pushing his little handcart before
him, he causes his utterance to correspond
with his gait—which is majestic.

"Milk! milk! *milk!*" he exclaims—or,
rather, utters—in a tone which is at once
appealing and authoritative.

Mr. Binney so interested me that I reported
him to the doctor.  "What is the mystery
of this unusual milkman?" I said.  But the
doctor only smiled.

A day or two afterwards, however, when I
was seated in anxious expectancy at the upper
window, Doctor Brink came up and brought
me my answer.  "Waiting for your milkman?"
he said....  "Ha!  I've just been sent for
to him.  Come round with me now and see
him in his little home....  I shall want
some help."

As we walked along, the doctor carried
his explanation a little further.  "We shall
have to take his clothes off," he observed.
"If once we can get him undressed he's
fixed for a week, because he cannot hold
things steady, and he's fat, and his trousers
are tight, and—oh, here we are."

A perfectly quiet and collected old lady
received us on the doorstep.  "He's cut
'isself this time," she announced; "fell agin
the railings by the church.  But he's very
jolly and 'igh-sperited, Doctor, and I'm sure
the sewing won't be any trouble to you.  Is
this your assistant?"

The doctor nodded.  "Where is he?"
he demanded.

"In 'is own old armchair," replied the
woman.  "Per'aps you'll get 'is clothes off,
Doctor.  It's on'y the trousers that matter.
They'll puzzle 'im till Sunday *this* time,
they will."

We found Mr. Binney in the situation
reported.  He received us with cheers and
a poetic outburst.

   |  "Dr. Brink,
   |  Full of chink,
   |  I *don't* think"—

he exclaimed; adding a personal couplet—

   |  "I'm old Binney,
   |  Not so damned skinny."
   |

"Doctor," he continued, "'ave a drink?"  Upon
the doctor declining this offer,
Mr. Binney chuckled loudly and extended—or
tried to extend—an arm.  "Feel me pulse,
old buck," he shouted.  "Let's see if you
know yere business.  If ye can feel old Binney's
pulse I'll give you 'arf a dollar, 'cause
I'll be damned if ole Binney kin feel it
'isself."

"Loss of feeling, eh?" said the doctor,
in his suavest tone.  "Ha! you'll feel *this*
all right."  With which words he inserted a
surgical needle in Mr. Binney's cheek.

"Oy!" cried Mr. Binney, "keep orf the grarse!"

But the doctor continued to ply his busy
thread, and Mr. Binney, being temporarily
incapable of performing any but the most
elementary movements, was constrained to
endure this treatment.  When the doctor
had completed it—Mr. Binney having several
times admonished him to "keep orf the
grarse!"—and we had removed that
garment which exerted such a powerful
influence upon the question of Mr. Binney's
freedom, that gentleman once more
expressed himself in verse, saying—

   |  "Doctor Brink,
   |  Tip 'im the wink,
   |  Give 'im a drink,
   |  I don't think.
   |  Put 'im in clink,
   |  Tiddely-wink,
   |  Tiddely-wink,
   |  Give 'im a drink.
   |  Give 'im a——

Good-bye, old pal, an' come agin termorrer."

We went again upon the morrow, and
Binney expressed himself as being glad to
see us.

"I dunno 'oo your soft-lookin' friend may
be," said Mr. Binney, "but I know 'oo you
are, Doctor, an' you done me a power o'
good, an' I'm grateful to you.  Gettin' on
fine, I am."

"That's *right*," exclaimed the doctor,
looking as if he believed it.  "Keeping off
the drink, of course, as I advised you?"

"Keepin' orf tadpoles!" cried Mr. Binney,
with disdain.  "I've 'ad five brandies auready
this mornin', an' not you, nor the ole woman,
nor the King 'isself would stop me.  I know
the cure for *my* complaint."

The next morning Dr. Brink paid his third
and last visit to this patient.  The patient
willed it so, having reconstructed the frame
of his mind.

"Look 'ere, me man," said Mr. Binney
upon this occasion, "I'm grateful for what
you done for me, and so on.  See?  But
I've 'ad enough of you.  See?  I'm very
much obliged to you, and all that; but I
don't want you.  I'm better now.  I'm all
right now.  *I* don't want no blinkin' doctors.
See what I mean?  You're a clever fellow,
no doubt, and I quite agree, and you 'ave
my thanks.  But you can 'op it.  See?"

Dr. Brink accordingly hopped it.  But that
his treatment had not been wholly useless
was testified by Mrs. Binney, who, when
calling in that evening for some more dark
brown, announced, with a sigh of satisfaction,
that "'is trembles" was as bad as ever.
"It'll be another week 'fore ever 'e can put
them trousers on," she cried triumphantly.

That was a week ago.  This very day has
witnessed Mr. Binney's return to public
life—properly habited and full of dignity.

I have been watching him, as, with his
finest and most benevolent air, he bestowed
a can of wholesome, grass-fed nourishment
upon one of the numerous Barnstein children,
who live opposite.

His hands, I thought, showed signs of
more than usual eagerness as he hooked
a trembling finger round the handle of the
can.  There was an expression as of reverence
upon his face, and he yielded the liquid
into Miss Barnstein's keeping with a
hesitancy, as of one loth to part from his
treasure.

His lips moved, and I could almost have
believed that he had breathed a blessing—a
Latin blessing.  Then I heard him speak—in
deep, impressive tones he spake.

"Be careful with it, missy," he said.  "If
you spill some, what'll mother say?  Now
do be careful!"

With that he returned to his little
hand-cart and pushed it slowly up the road,
walking with a measured gait and uttering, in
rich and reverent tones, his exhortation:—

"Milk!  Milk!  *Milk!*"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TWO PATIENTS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXI


.. class:: center large bold

   TWO PATIENTS

.. vspace:: 2

My friend, Mrs. Isadore Muntz, has been
very ill, poor girl.

She is always rather ill, of course; there
would not otherwise be much point in being
married to so rich and elderly a man as
Isadore.  But the illness which I now have
to record was a real one—a horrid one.  It
involved the use of a surgeon's knife.  It
involved the complete collapse of Isadore,
whose world-famous bill-brokery was carried
on without the stimulus of his presence for
nearly fourteen days.

For more than seven days of that period,
it is said, he kept to his chamber, and cried
without ceasing.  And he admitted, between
his sobs, to my aunt Elizabeth, that Sir
Marmaduke Wilkins's fee for the operation
had amounted to a hundred guineas, besides
an additional charge of twenty guineas for
the anæsthetist.

But Mrs. Isadore—Constance she used to
let me call her—is getting slowly better.
Because she used to let me call her
Constance and because—because I am sorry for
her, I went to the "At Home," which was
held at West Hampstead, in order—I suppose—to
celebrate the result of Sir Marmaduke
Wilkins's efforts.

Less than eight weeks having elapsed
since the occasion of Sir Marmaduke's skilful
treatment, she was still forbidden to be very
active.  So she lay on a sofa, embowered
with blossoms, and we rustled up and cried
over her.  Isadore, the faithful creature,
stood fast by her right hand.  This was
perhaps responsible for Constance's notable
depression.

It is also possible that she thought of all
those low-necked gowns hanging useless on
their pegs upstairs.

"You don't mean to say *you've* come!"
Constance exclaimed when I took her hand;
"I thought you hated Hampstead."

"And so I do," replied the tactful guest.
"But I heard a funny story yesterday,
and——"

"That's all right," she said.  "I'm sick of
funny stories.  Tell me something tragic.
Haven't you fallen in love lately?"

"Yes," I said, "and I've bought another dog."

"Tell me about the dog," she said.

So I described the dog for nearly twenty
minutes, much to the enragement of many
mourners, who were waiting for an audience.
When the laws of decency compelled me to
retreat, she was so kind as to ask me to
convey a form of greeting to the new dog.

"I will come and see him one day," she
said.  "But they won't let me move for
weeks yet, and when they do I've got to go
to Bournemouth and be wheeled about in a
bath-chair.  Isn't it horrid?"

"It is," I admitted, and I turned away to
meet the cod-fish eye and collected
expression of Sir Marmaduke Wilkins, M.R.C.S.
That scientist was eating an ice with relish.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



You may wonder what connection I trace
between this episode and the life of
Bovingdon Street.  There is a connection; but it
traced itself.  I left the Muntz's stately
mansion feeling in need of distraction, and
that distraction I sought from Doctor Brink
and James.  And James was full of news.

"I've begun my professional education,"
she said.  "I administered chloroform to a
case last week.  Fee sixpence.  Fatty still
owes it me."

I turned to Fatty for his explanations.

"Pity me," said that gentleman, "I have
a hussy for a daughter.  One who makes
sport of her poor old father's need.  I do
owe her the money.  I shall continue to owe
it.  I am entitled to owe it.  I only got
half-a-crown for the whole thing—anæsthetist's
fee included.

"Men like Marmaduke Wilkins get a
hundred guineas for the same operation.  And
then the patient has to pay another ten or
twenty for the anæsthetist.  When a high-class,
if modest surgeon, like myself, consents
to perform these things for a wage which
would offend the dignity of a dustman, why,
damme, it is his *duty* to swindle the
anæsthetist.  Why——"

"What was your patient?" I asked.

"The patient?  Oh, a girl in Mulberry
Street.  Works at the pickle factory.  Pretty
girl, only eighteen.  James cried.  Rather
unprofessional, what?  Now she has the
cheek to ask for sixpence!"

"What was—er—the result of your
high-class surgery?  Is the girl alive?"

"Alive!  Why, my insulting young friend,
she's back again at the pickle works.  Went
to work on the sixth day.  *My* girls don't die."

"At work again in six days—after—after
*that*!  And you let her!"

"Better work than starve," said the doctor
brusquely....  "How did you enjoy
yourself at Hampstead this afternoon?"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`LOST!`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXII


.. class:: center large bold

   LOST!

.. vspace:: 2

It isn't often that Dr. Brink permits himself
to have emotions during business hours, but
even the doctor looked astonished when
O'Flannigan came into his consulting-room.
We called him O'Flannigan, because he did
not leave a visiting-card, and we had to
call him *something*.  And he spoke with a
trace of the Irish accent.  He was a very
tall man and very stout, having dead-white
hair, which he wore in curls, and a very red
face.  His clothes were all of them black,
and they shone in places with a sort of oily
lustre.  He wore black gloves and a black
tie, and he carried a black umbrella.

"Evenin', Doctorrr," said he; "ut's a fine
place ye got hearrr!"

The doctor bowed.

"Ut is a fine place," repeated the visitor,
tapping the oilcloth with his umbrella point;
"but, begad, 'tis a mericle how you kin do
ut.  Privut inkum purrhaps?"

"Why, yes," acknowledged Dr. Brink,
"my income is certainly a private matter."

"The divil ut is!" commented the visitor.
"Me own's so damned privut Oi've lost sight
of ut this ten yeers past.  Midwifery
connection is good, Oi onderstand.  Ut's a
sound, domestic practus, Doctorrr?"

The doctor nodded.  Wonder had made
him speechless.

"That's good now," ejaculated the visitor,
holding tight to the mantelpiece as he fished
with his umbrella for a chair.  "Give me
a sound domestic practus.  It's these damned
Alcoholics and so forth which Oi deprecate,
Doctorrr.  They're no use to a man.  They
nevorrr pay up, they nevorrr git bettorrr,
and, be jabers, they nevorrr damned well
die.  Ye put the takuns at three hunderrrd,
Doctorrr?  Begad, 'tis a poor inkum.  Faith,
Oi've known a man do bettorrr cuttin' corns.
'Tis a cash trade, is ut not, Doctorrr?"

"It is," said Dr. Brink.  "What can I do
for you?"

"Do for me?" echoed the visitor.  "Whoi,
if tis a drink yure profferin' me, Doctorrr,
Oi will name the ush'll.  Three hunderrrd,
eh?  Begad, 'tis a paltry inkum—a damned
dirrrty, snivelling sneakin' wasp-waisted
inkum for a gentleman to live upon.  But 'tis
a cash trade, to be shure, and there's no
anxiety, to be shure.  If they die, why,
dammit, they die.  You take yure thruppence
and they take their chance.  A veterinary
trade, in fact, Doctorrr.  Do ye walk
yure rounds, Doctorrr?"

"Cab 'em," snapped out Dr. Brink.

The visitor held on to the mantelpiece
with both hands.  "Holy Motherrr!" he
cried.  "A cab is ut, ye say?  On three
hunderrrd?  And Oi been surgeon-majorrr
in th' Army!  Whoi, begad, Doctorrr, I have
known the toimes when half a dozen of us in
th' Eightieth could drink yure cab away at a
sittin'.  Cab did Oi say?  Be the grace of
Heaven, there was gentlemen with us would
dispose of a pair-horse brougham in the
same period.  Cab?  To the divil with cabs.
Oi must stump ut.  Stump ut on me ten old
toes.  Meself, moind ye—a retired
surgeon-majorrr of her late Majesty's Army.  And
me over sixty, Doctorrr!  It is thus that
Britain treats her warriors.  Begad, they've
even stole me pension from me.  When do
Oi take overr, Doctorrr?"

"Take over what?"

"Why, dammit, man," began the visitor,
but his flush of anger suddenly died down.
A look of bewilderment took its place.
"Will ye pardon me, Doctorrr," said the
visitor slowly, in a voice which sounded
husky.  "But tell me am Oi roight in
assuming that I was privileged to meet ye
hearrr lost noight?"

The doctor shook his head.

"Then," cried the visitor, moved this time
by an evidently powerful emotion, "then tell
me, man, for God's sake, tell me, is this not
the practus I bought from ye last noight?"

"You certainly haven't bought *this* practice,"
responded Dr. Brink.  "It isn't for
sale."

"Begad," mused the visitor, slowly rubbing
his chin, "begad, Oi might have known as
much.  It is a fine place ye have hearrr.
Ye wouldn't be for sellin' ut.  Not be any
means.  'Tis a fine place and a fine practus.
Indeed you would be foolish to part with ut,
Doctorrr.  At any rate, for the sum Oi paid
ye yesterday.  But, begad, Oi never paid ut
ye.  Indeed I didn't.  Was I so drunk then?
Oi doubt ut.

"Hearrr am Oi, an honest, Christian man,
a professor of the healun art, the noblest art
which——  Begad, Oi *know* Oi paid ut ye.
And be jabers, hearrr's—hearrr's the
front-door key—yure front-door key—his, Oi
should say, Doctorrr, which he gave me
when Oi, when Oi——

"For the love of Hiven, Doctorrr, tell
me—tell me truly, Doctorrr, where in Satan's
name is the dirty little practus which I bought
and paid for yesterday?"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SURVIVOR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXIII


.. class:: center large bold

   THE SURVIVOR

.. vspace:: 2

Everybody must still remember the sensational
explosion at Stoat's cordite factory in
Limehouse.  It was quite the talk of last
year's gooseberry season.  I may remind you
that one departmental manager, one
bookkeeper, one lady typist, and eighteen hands
were utterly and instantaneously atomised;
that the managing director himself sustained
a shock; and that more than seventy
operatives had to be removed in ambulances at
the company's expense.

It will be remembered that very High
Personages sent telegrams of sympathy.  A
sum of money was publicly subscribed for
the relief and burial of the sufferers.  The
great heart of England was touched, though
it did not leave off beating.

But those whose recollection of that horrible,
soul-thrilling catastrophe is as keen as mine
will remember that, viewed from the broad
and enlightened standpoint of news-value,
its most important feature was Mr. John
Boyle.  This honest artisan went up with
the gentleman book-keeper and the lady
typist and the hands.  But unlike them he
came down unbroken and almost unhurt,
being so fortunate as to alight upon a
providential mound of cotton-waste.

Few people will need to be reminded how
this clever action was rewarded.  A special
(*D—— M——*) collection, amounting to
nearly £300, was raised in three weeks and
presented to Mr. Boyle in recognition of his
courage and ingenuity.  Pictures of Mr. Boyle
in all varieties of dress, attitude, and
employment were published in the journals.
I have an especially vivid recollection of one
picture, appearing in a Sunday newspaper.
The photographer had caught the noteworthy
features of Mr. Boyle at a particularly happy
moment; and with consummate art he had
represented our hero as emerging from a
bad fog with a patch on his chest.
This study bore the following inscription:
"John Boyle at Home: He nurses the baby."

The next stage in Mr. Boyle's development,
or (to state it more correctly) in the
development of the public attitude towards
Mr. Boyle, was his engagement to appear at
the Shoreditch Hippodrome in a dramatic
entertainment called "The Man Who was
Blown Up."

But by the time he had reached this altitude
of greatness the fame of Mr. Boyle was
already well established; his name had become
familiar to the national ear.  For months
before the day of Mr. Boyle's historic decision
to blend his destiny with that of the national
drama it had been a common thing to hear
men say to other men: "'Ullo, Charlie; been
'avin' one with Boyle?"

This oft-repeated sally, which never failed
to provoke laughter, was popularly supposed
to embody a charge of alcoholic excess.

In these days, when Mr. Boyle as "The
Man Who was Blown Up" has enjoyed
three hundred consecutive nights of fame, it
is regarded as a silly thing to joke about him.
He is now a solemn National fact.

But it was my own particular good fortune
to meet Mr. Boyle at a period when the
hand of Fame had barely touched him.  I
made his acquaintance within twenty-four
hours after the tremendous moment which
had so exalted Mr. Boyle and his fortunes.

Mr. Boyle, having been detained for a
brief period at a local infirmary, was anointed
with surgical balm and dismissed; when he
immediately came round to the sixpenny
surgery of Dr. Brink, demanding a certificate
of injuries which should enable him to extract
some monetary compensation from the
coffers of Stoat's Cordite Works, Limited.
Mr. Boyle was not then prognostic of the
public rewards which awaited him.

Mr. Boyle having stated his business, the
doctor became excited and summoned me to
leave the hiding-place and join him openly
in the consulting-room.

"This chap," he explained, "is John
Boyle, who was blown up with other
employed objects at the cordite works, and
who is still alive.  If you are a real
journalist you will get 'copy' out of him."

I took Mr. Boyle by the hand and I said
to him—

"You have had an awful experience, old
chap.  My God, you have lived through an
awful thing."

Mr. Boyle said: "I believe you, guv'nor.
Now this is a funny thing, ain't it.  I was 'it
on the leg by somethink; and whatever it
was, it went right through me trouser but
never 'urt the sock.  Funny thing, that, ain't it?"

"Quite extraordinary," I admitted.  "All
the other poor chaps in your shop are dead,
aren't they?"

"Twelve chaps and four females; all
dead," admitted Mr. Boyle.  "Funny thing,
wasn't it?  Right through me trouser and
never touched the sock!"

"Eighty injured from the other shops!"
I reflected.  "What did you think—how
did you feel, when—when you realised it
all?"

"I never thought much abaht it," responded
Mr. Boyle.  "Me leg was 'urtin'."

"It isn't a matter one need encourage him
to think about," suggested the doctor.

"I can't 'elp thinking about one thing,
though," interpolated Mr. Boyle.  "Such a
funny thing: Right through——"

"It must have been an awful moment," I
hazarded, "when you came to your senses
and looked about and saw the—the awfulness
of it.  What did you do?"

"I don't remember, not clearly," responded
Mr. Boyle....  "I know I laughed.  It
seemed so queer for anything to rip right
through a person's trouser-leg and not go
near 'is sock."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MORE OF PRUDENCE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXIV


.. class:: center large bold

   MORE OF PRUDENCE

.. vspace:: 2

Prudence and midday post arrived together
at Baffin's washhouse on the day appointed
for her second stance.

"Oo-er, Mr. Baffin," was her greeting:
"*I* got your letters.  Gimme the stamps,
wown't you?  Me an' my friend we allus
c'lect stamps.  We ain't gointer stop till we
got ten thousand, and then we're gointer
make a bonfire when my mother's out.  'Ere,
an' I ain't bin 'avin' *'arf* a lark with your
postman, Mr. Baffin.  Oo, an' the conductor
on the bus what I come by, 'e wasn't 'arf
drunk, I tell you.  I was frightened, I was,
'cos my father useder git drunk, an' once 'e
bit my mother.  'E *was* a bad man, my
father, an' they made 'im go out an' be a
soldier in Egypt, an' 'e got the fever in 'is
'ead, an' we got a picture of 'im at 'ome
before 'e was buried, an' you ought to see
the funny black man a-settin' alongside of
'im.  'Ere, I'm all in a knot at the back,
Mr. Baffin: arst your friend to undo me.
An' don't you foget to keep them stamps, an'
I spoge it's the chin agen, an' I 'ope you've
remembered the muffins!"

"Yes," responded Baffin, "I remembered
to get the muffins, and I've also remembered
to get an empty flour-sack.  Know what
that's for?"

Prudence shook her head—gravely, wonderingly.

"To smother up tiresome girls in that *will*
wriggle and *will* talk," explained Baffin.

"He! he!" giggled Prudence.  "Wown't
tie up *me*, I know.  'Cos if you was to do
that you couldn't paint me.  See?"  She
gurgled with triumph.

"And now," said Baffin, "it is time to
leave off playing.  Sit up, like a good girl,
and keep quiet.  Get rid of that bull's-eye."

"Yes," said Prudence.  And the lollipop
was "got rid of" of by a simple and effective
means.  "I *should* laugh if someone was to
tread on it," observed Prudence.  "If my
mother was to see——  Oo-er, Mr. Baffin,
down't 'oller at me, please, Mr. Baffin.  I
*will* be good, I will; on'y, if you look like
that I shall cry, 'Cos you frighten me."

Silence reigned for a little space, whilst
Prudence, with clenched hands, maintained
an attitude of strenuous repose.  Baffin's
actions alternated between brief and
seemingly motiveless dabs at his canvas, and a
critical inspection of his model, for the
purposes of which he spread out his legs and
wagged his head—slowly and pensively, from
side to side—like an elderly cockerel
surveying the domestic landscape.  This proceeding
terminated in a sigh that had all the
eloquence of a shout, and Baffin pounced, as it
were, upon his canvas.

Prudence selected this moment in which
to throw up both her hands, and wail with
sorrow.  "Ooh," she moaned, "ooh, I am a
bad gel, I am.  Ooh, what will my mother
say when I go 'ome?  She give me a letter
to powst, she did, an' I never powsted it, an'
it's a letter for our landlord, it is, an' I
promised faithful to put it into the first box I
come to.  An' now I've fogot it, I 'ave, an'
my mother 'll be cross.  An' I love my
mother, I do, an' she's got a bad place on
her arm, an' I am a bad, wicked gel to tease
an' trouble 'er, I am.  Oo-er, I must get up
and go out, Mr. Baffin.  I must, 'cause I
fogot to powst my mother's letter."

Baffin did the philosophic thing: put away
his canvas, and put on the kettle, and invited
his sitter to unsit and rejoice.  That young
person responded to this invitation by
sitting wonderfully silent—strangely still—for
ten minutes.  It was only at the very end
of this unique performance that we perceived
her to be shedding tears.  Real tears,
this time.

It was possible in that moment to realise
that Prudence had passed her twenty-second
year.  Baffin touched her shoulder, and she
shrank from him and shuddered.  She spoke,
and her voice was the voice of a woman.
"Lemme alone: lemme alone.  You donnow
what a un'eppy gel I am.  You—you——"

It finished in a gurgle.

Then, with the laudable motive of clearing
the air, Baffin referred in a tone of banter to
the still visible presence of red flannel.  The
success of his experiment amazed us both.
All in a moment the whims and capers of
infancy possessed her again, and she
succumbed to an ecstasy of wriggles.

"Ooh, 'ere, 'ere, Mr. Baffin; 'ere, I say,
what do you think some man 'as done?
Some man 'as sent me a—a something:
a underneath something, all white.  Yes, reely!"

"An' my mother says it didn't 'arf cost
somethink, neether.  But ain't 'e got a cheek
to do it?  'Cos it ain't right for a man to
send presents like that to a gel when she's
grown up: 'cos my mother says it's takin' a
liberty.  Whoever sent me it, 'e must 'a'
been a artist because of the tasty yoke.  My
mother says as I'm a grown-up gel now, an'
I got to be very pertickler.

"Oo, it is pretty, though, I tell you: pink
ribbon on the shoulders, an' my mother says
'ooever 'e is 'e oughter be ashamed of 'isself,
an' all my gel cousins from Catford are
comin' on Sunday to 'ave a look, an' when I
find out 'oo it is, my mother says I can tell
'im what I think of 'im."

Stimulated and cheered by the thought of
this exciting prospect, Prudence fell upon
the muffins.  Her appetite, at any rate,
was thoroughly grown up, and, having
performed a veritable gastronomic feat, she
curled herself up on the musty old curtain
which carpeted Baffin's "throne" and—went
to sleep.

Whereupon, the unauthorised kittens—they
crawled everywhere—you found them
in the milk jug—promptly employed the
skirts of Prudence as a playground.

"Move those kittens away, like a good
chap," Baffin called out to me.  "They'll
worry Prudence when she wakes up.  Hates
the silly beggars, you know."

But to our surprise, when Prudence did
wake up, she stretched forth a foot, and
began to tease the plumpest of them with
the point of her shoe.

"Funny objec's, ain't they, when they're
fat and soft, like this?" said Prudence.
"Breakable, ain't they?  No strength in
their legs.  On'y fit to lie on their backs an'
be tickled."

And Prudence stooped down, and lifted
the plump one into her lap.

"Ooh, my! 'is little pores ain't 'arf soft!"  She
spoke in the woman's voice that we had
heard but once before.  "'Is little pores
ain't 'arf soft; you could bite 'em."

She kissed a paw.

"Ain't 'e got a funny morsel of a nose.
Sich a cheeky nose; such a teeny one.  You
could bite it.  You—you——"

She lifted the absurd little animal to her
face, and rubbed her cheek against his
cosy side, and she kissed his impertinent nose.

"Oo's a precious, then!" continued Prudence.
"Oo's a sleepy precious.  My, 'e's
a sleepy little 'elpless little lump of fat!
Ain't you, boy?  What price a see-saw, fat boy?"

She held him so that he hung by his
shoulders in an attitude that was not
suggestive of dignity.  And she dandled and
bounced him in a manner with which kittens
are not familiar.  She lifted him to her face
again, and made as if to kiss the nose once more.

But the lips, half bunched for that purpose,
parted suddenly, as if with pain—as if with
wonder—as if with horror.  The kitten
slipped from her fingers, and fell with an
indignant mew into the soft, warm haven
of her lap.  And Prudence's hands went up
to her startled face, and her hair fell over
her like a shroud, and she sobbed as women sob.

"Oh, Gawd!" she cried; "its eyes, its
eyes!  Its little, winkin' eyes!  Oh, mother,
*mother*!"




.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A TALK WITH JAMES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXV


.. class:: center large bold

   A TALK WITH JAMES

.. vspace:: 2

I had extinguished the flame of the doctor's
gas-stove, and was warming myself on the
lid, when James burst in and interrupted me.

"Come off it, like a dear, and listen," said
James.  "I've had a proposal!"

I wondered, for a moment, whether this
flippant manner of stating a serious fact did
not call for some form of fatherly rebuke.
But all that I actually said was: "Well, I
hope you think you've started soon enough."

"Started!" echoed James, regarding me
with an air as of dignified amazement.  "My
dear young man, I *started* years ago.  Why,
Baffin was my third; and Baffin began to
woo me before I was eleven."

"How long ago was that?" I meekly inquired.

"Don't you be rude," said James.  "I
take a grown-up size in almost everything.
If Baffin perseveres, I suppose I shall really
have to accept him—if it's only to make him
leave off wearing those New Art ties.  But,
really and truly, I'd rather not be married at
all.  I don't believe I've got a married mind.
I'm much too fond of rats."

"But," I ventured to point out, "people
have been known to combine the two interests."

"Not successfully," asserted James.  "Rats
require a fearful lot of attention.  Another
thing about Baffin is his hands.  I really
*couldn't* be married to them."

"Why 'another' thing?" I inquired.  "You
haven't stated any firstly."

"I daresay my grammar isn't quite correct,
but I haven't noticed that yours is perfect,"
rejoined James.  "And, anyhow, my ideas
are sound even if my grammar is weak.  Of
course, one could *train* him to take care of
his nails; but with rats you have more to
show for your trouble.  He really was most
touching."

"Baffin has a fine vein of sentiment," I
admitted.

"Why Baffin?" demanded James.  "I
was talking about Mr. Grimsdick."

"Pardon me," I said.  "You think so
rapidly, and my hands are cold.  Who is
Mr. Grimsdick?"

"The one I was telling you about,"
explained James.  "He's our grocer."

"But you never were telling me about
him," I protested.  "He is quite a new
character."

"Nonsense," cried James.  "Why, the
very first thing I said to you was that
Mr. Grimsdick had proposed to me.  At least, I
take it as a proposal.  He held my hand
and——"

"Excuse me," I ventured to observe,
"but do you think it quite correct in the
daughter of a respected family physician
that she should go about the country
holding hands with grocers?  Now had it
been——"

James cut short my speech with characteristic
impatience.  "Mr. Grimsdick," she said,
"has been holding my hand for years."

"Does he sell lard?" I inquired.

"He is a very religious man, and when
his wife died, when I was about seven, he
used to give me raisins and pat my head to
comfort himself.  And this afternoon, when
he gave me my change, he held my hand
and he said, 'R!  Miss, I expect we shall
soon see you round yere shopping on your
own account.  How time do fly, to be shaw.
You'll be having your hair up soon.  And
yet it don't seem no time since the days
when you used to sit on the cheese barrels
and swing your little legs and heat my
raisins.  'E'll be a lucky young fellar
whoever 'e is.  They'll 'ave to 'urry up, miss,
some of 'em—what?  I on'y wish I was a
young man—*I'd* give some of 'em a lead.'

"So I said, 'Never mind, Mr. Grimsdick.
I shall always come to you for my soap and tea.'

"And he laughed.  And he said, 'R!
We shan't see much of you round 'ere, I
reckon, miss.  You'll be marrying into the
aristocracy and goin' to live at Herne Bay
or Clacton.'

"So then I gave him Fatty's well-known
speech about the Idle Rich.

"And he said, 'Oh!  If that's your way
of thinkin' there's a chance for all of us.
Well, miss, there's a empty chair in my
parlour and a seat be'ind the cash desk.'  *I* call
that a proposal."

"A most definite and unequivocal
proposal," I agreed.  "What did you say next?"

"Oh," said James, "there was nothing else
of importance.  We got off on to the
subject of Carlsbad plums: they were beauties,
but too dear.  He wouldn't reduce them."

"Pooh!" I cried.  "And he calls himself
a lover!"

"*All* men aren't like Baffin and other
people, thank goodness," said James
disdainfully.  "Mr. Grimsdick thinks about
the future.  But I'd rather go in for rats,
I think.  There's Baffin, for instance: he
never shuts a door after him."

"Rats don't either," I submitted.

"But cats don't open them," argued James,
not without logic.  "And then there's always
having to be at home on the second
Tuesday.  Really, I can't decide about my future
at all.  Most girls haven't any difficulties,
because they can make up their minds to be
nurses and relieve the sufferings of the poor.
But I've been brought up to that sort of
thing, and it bores me.  Of course, you can
always get an opium-eater, or drunkard, or
something, and devote your life to reforming
him.  But then, again, they always smell of
it.  Really, it's very hard.  And Baffin's so
irritable.  Look at the way men fuss over
trifles.  And if you get one who is clean
and not fussy, and not a grocer, and decently
young, he is sure to be ugly and a bore."

I said, "You are referring now, I suppose,
to Boag, the Conative Meliorist?"

"No," replied James.  "Mr. Boag is a
bore, but he isn't downright ugly.  As
a matter of fact, I was thinking of *you*."

"Oh!" I said.

"Yes," said James.  "I know you like
one to be frank.  Apart from everything
else, men make me sick.  It will really have
to be rats."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE APRIL BARGE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXVI


.. class:: center large bold

   THE APRIL BARGE

.. vspace:: 2

I set out, sedately enough, one April
morning, to rescue James from her aunt at
Bayswater.  I set out grandly enthroned
upon a 'bus.

But I came quite unexpectedly upon this
April Barge, and James and her aunt were
forgotten.

The April sun had come out sharp to time,
you see, and was winking fitfully upon all of
us, like the unsettled, rakish fellow that he
is.  And a girl with two great baskets full of
wondering daffodils had come out, too; and
some conscienceless vagabond was extracting
melody from a cornet.  So that even the
Regent's Canal, with its sombre vicinage and
sulky craft, seemed, as if by some surprising
effort, to have taken on an air of sweetness
and youth and hope.

You could consider this fact at leisure as
our 'bus toiled slowly up the rise of a road
which spans the canal.  There was a public-house
in front of us—the public-house and
the cornet seem to be inseparably united in
this neighbourhood—but the canal was to
one's left, and appeared, somehow, to convey
that air of refreshment which the tavern so
conspicuously lacked.

As one looked down upon the face of these
waters, so strangely heartened by the
sunlight, a sort of certainty grew upon him that
they would break suddenly into perspective;
that their vista would cease to be obscured
by coal wharves and cranes and hoardings;
that somebody's whisky, commended to
your notice in large white letters on a
blue-enamelled background, would fade and fade
and fade, until it merged with the white
clouds and the blue sky behind it.  Then
need you but sigh and sit back, beholding a
silver streak set snugly between hills, and
flowing, flowing, flowing to the edge of the
world.  Instead of which——

Pooh!  There was no instead.  The April
sun kept winking at the daffodils, and the
daffodils kept staring at the sun, and the
cornet-man made music by the waterside.
So that even a poet might have smiled at it
all.  For here, I'll swear, was none of your
mere "waterways," created by syndicates for
profit; here was none of your world capitals.
Just a little old river, sunning itself
gratefully in a little old town that God had
made.

And, as if to strengthen this conceit, a
woman came up through the hatchway of a
barge that I was looking at.  She was
wearing a sun-bonnet, in accordance with the
custom of barge-women, and she stood up
gracefully, one hand on her hip, the other
before her eyes, to seek out the cornet
player.

   |  We are the boys of the bulldawg breed
   |  What's made ole Hengland's Nime.

Those were the words which had inspired
the melody which the cornet-blower was
blowing.  The woman tapped her foot in
time with the notes.

Her husband came up then, accompanied
by tobacco clouds and a baby.  He seemed
to be a fortunate sort of husband, for I
noticed that the woman laughed appreciatively
at some joke which he made.

Then the man's eye wandered to the
canal-side, and he caught sight of the
daffodil-girl, who was standing there.  And what
must the fellow do but throw kisses to her,
which gallantry was reciprocated by the
flower-girl.  The barge-woman laughed at
this new jest with even more good humour
(if that were possible) than that which she
had shown before.  The man shouted some
message or other to the flower-girl, and she
replied, whereupon he handed the baby to
his wife, saying, "Catch 'old, Fatty!"—an
utterance which I heard without hearing, as
one can when an April sun is shining on men's
hearts.  And, advancing to the side of the
boat, the man held out his arms, and the girl
threw daffodils towards him.

The first bloom fell into the water, and
the second; the third he caught.  One more
poor daffodil was drowned, and he caught
the two next.  So that there was one for
his cap, and one for the missus, and one for
the baby, who, being now safely delivered
from the paternal arms (which were not built
for cradling babies), needed but the
additional stimulus of a yellow thing to marvel
at ere it smiled as largely as any of them.

And upon my word I smiled, too, and
could, indeed, have laughed outright.  But
I sat in awe of a fat man on the adjacent
seat.  He did not belong to that order of
lunatics who laugh for nothing in the
sunshine.  "What we want," he was saying to
his companion, "what we want," he said,
with his eyes fixed tight upon this April
barge, "what we want is a total *change of
Government*.  Nothin' won't ever be right
again till we get it."

I had a heavy parcel of books on my knee,
and to drop them heavily upon his foot had
been, as it were, the accident of a moment.
But the sweet temperance of springtime had
stolen into my blood, and I forbore.
Besides which there were the barges and the
daffodils, and they were better worth a man's
consideration than this fool.

So I looked over the side again, and saw
that the barge-man had turned his
attention to the cornet-blower, with whom he
was exchanging highly flavoured sarcasms.
With a view, probably, of adding zest to his
humours, and because a springtime madness
was upon him, he had changed headgear
with his wife, and stood there in her
sun-bonnet, grimacing and laughing.  He had a
long barge-pole in his hand, and somehow—I
don't quite know how it happened—in
assuming to hurl that weapon at the
cornet-blower, he overbalanced himself, and fell
sideways into the water, striking his head as
he fell against the side of another barge,
which was moored close to his own in
that jumble fashion which is peculiar to
barges.

He came up again almost directly, looking
queer in his wife's sun-bonnet (for he had
tied the tapes beneath his chin), and then
immediately sank again.  The nerveless
ineptitude of it all made one angry with the
man: it seemed to be wilful.

As for the wife, she looked wonderingly
over the side, and realisation came to her so
slowly that a laugh still flickered faintly on
her face when he came up again.  Even then,
the sound which she uttered was as much
like a chuckle as a cry.  And when words
came to her, they were few enough.  "Oh,
my pore man!" she moaned.  "Oh, my
pore man!  Oh, my pore man!"

And the baby lay on its back, and chuckled
knowingly into the petals of a dishevelled
daffodil.

Our 'bus had made the bend of the canal
bank by this time, and now was parallel with
the water, and exactly opposite to this barge.
Under the united stimulus of instinctive
curiosity and instinctive horror, the driver
pulled up sharp; and so the 'bus stood still,
and we passengers sat there, gaping at that
funny thing in the sun-bonnet as it came up
for a second time and sank again.

"Oh, my pore man!  Oh, my pore man!"
moaned the wife.

And the cornet-blower, pale with horror,
still applied himself automatically to the
cornet.  He had changed his tune since first
I heard him, and the aquatic feats of the man
in the sun-bonnet were conducted to music,
the strains of which, being interpreted into
words, ran as follows—

   |  Hi!  Hi! clear the road
   |  For the rowdy, dowdy boys.
   |

It came up again for the third time, and
the woman on the barge grabbed frantically
at nothing, and tore her arm in the effort, so
that a crimson splash mingled with the
eddying waters as he sank again.

And then the cornet-blower remembered
himself, and dropped his cornet hastily, as
though it burned him.  And, of all queer
things for a cornet-blower to do, he blubbered
weakly, like a woman found out.

And the mischievous sun cast his shadow
upon the water, and caused it to dance
joyously thereon, so that you would have
deemed it to be the shadow of one consumed
with joy.

"Oh, my pore man!" cried the wife.  "Oh,
my pore man!  Oh, my pore man!"

And the fat person from the next seat said
to his friend, "I saw it comin'.  The giddy
fool was larkin' about like a ape."  And, in
the meantime, the giddy fool did not come
up again.

Suddenly the flower-girl spoke.  "My
Gawd!" she screamed, struggling feverishly
to disentangle herself from her shawl and
the straps of her basket and her fringe; "my
Gawd! where's all the blarsted men got to?
What's 'appened to you?  For Christ's sake
find a *man*, you fools!"

The 'bus emptied itself, and men ran into
each other along the roadway, and somebody
ran for a policeman.  So that there was a
great deal of noise and bustle shorewards.
But at the same time certain male persons of
a much more silent and effective character
made their appearance upon the barges
adjacent to the April barge.  They did not
shout, and they did not run about much.
They fetched poles and produced ropes, and
one of their number climbed into the water at
the end of one; and presently, after much
probing and searching and jerking (and not
a little swearing), they brought him up at the
end of a barge-pole, with a slime concealing
all of him except the sun-bonnet, which had
slipped upon one side, and looked more
comical than ever.

"Oh, my pore man!" cried the barge-woman,
who by now was surrounded by a
stimulating coterie of other barge-women.

"*E's* done for!" said my fat neighbour,
and spat contentedly.

And the baby snatched at its mother's
head, which was still covered with her
husband's hat, from which a single daffodil was
dangling.

In the meantime, they laid him down upon
the deck of a barge, and relays of men, acting
under the direction of a policeman, jerked at
his arms, and pulled his legs, and pummelled
his chest.  But, as the fat man had said, *he*
was done for, and these exhausting efforts
only made the baby laugh.  So they lifted
him hurriedly, with a change of manner, as
befitted a changed burden, and conveyed him
to the shore, where he was placed upon an
ambulance and deported.

The fat man formed himself into an
impromptu committee of inspection.  He
returned to his friend (and my side) after a
lengthy dalliance by the ambulance, and
spoke as one well pleased.

"Crack in 'is 'ead as long as my 'and.
'Orrible!  Never noted afore that blood 'ad
such a salty smell to it.  Quite sickly, ain't
it?  To think of it, poor fool! ... And on
a day like this, too!"

And he took off his hat and sunned
himself.  "I'm for a drink arter all that," he
added; and, his companion agreeing with
him, he walked over to the tavern, in
company with many other of the 'bus passengers,
and the driver and conductor of that vehicle,
and most of the barge-men.

They took the cornet-blower with them,
and somebody collected a store of coppers in
that musician's interest, with which he was
presented upon the understanding that he
should "bite off a yard o' somethink lively"
to cheer the mourning host withal.

So while the woman on the barge was
being carried below deck by her sympathisers;
whilst faint gurgles issued from the daffodil-girl,
standing over her baskets by the water-side;
whilst the sun winked down upon all
of us—the cornet-blower threw out his chest
with an air something at variance with the
muddy tears upon his cheek, and blared out
a song of mourning.

   |  Leave off tickerlin', leave off tickerlin',
   |  Leave off tickerlin', Jock!

sang the mourners; and the jolly young
sun must have winked itself into a headache.

By the time our 'bus went on again every
note of tragedy save one had departed from
the scene.  That solitary note was supplied
by the daffodil-girl, who stood by her garden
dabbing disconsolately at her nose and eyes
with an apron-end.

Nought was stirring on the April barge,
save one plump little figure, which squatted
all by itself in the centre of the deck.  They
had forgotten the baby in this coil.  But
the baby was quite happy—happier than any
of them.  For it sat there, eating its father's
cap, and smiling amiably at the sunshine, as
who should know that there is a benign and
beautiful purpose in everything, even unto
the falling of a sparrow.

The daffodils upon the waterside, pressing
each other close within their baskets, stared
up into the heavens more wonderingly than ever.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CASE OF MRS. ROPER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXVII


.. class:: center large bold

   THE CASE OF MRS. ROPER

.. vspace:: 2

"Beg pardon, young fellar," said Mrs. Roper,
"but ain't you the young fellar from the
doctor's?"

Mrs. Roper is a sullen-eyed lady with
very many chins.  She is, *vide* her shop
sign, a dealer in antiques, and, to quote the
same authority, old metal, old teeth, old
glass and china, and every variety of new
and second-hand wearing apparel are bought
and sold by her.  She is not the cleanest
woman in London, nor is her shop the
cleanest in Bovingdon Street.  But there is
charm in the variety and abundance of
Mrs. Roper's assets, which are the working parts,
as it were, of our complex civilisation,
amongst which tokens Mrs. Roper is always
sitting, silently, mournfully, by day and
night, like a lonely widow on a coral
reef, surrounded by mementoes of a shipwreck.

I hastened to reply with civility to Mrs. Roper's
question, for that lady had just sold
to me for ninepence an ancient brass tobacco
jar, which expert opinion has since valued at
half a guinea.

"Then," said Mrs. Roper, "I will thank
you to send the doctor round 'ere.  Tell 'im
that the stuff what 'e calls medicine is makin'
me worse."

"Madam," said I, thinking rather of my
benefactress than of my friend, "the doctor
is outside now.  Shall I——?"

"I thought I seed the shadder of 'is 'at,"
said Mrs. Roper; "call 'im in."

I called the doctor, as directed, and he
came in with a brisk and cheerful air, kicking
me brutally upon the shin in passing.  I
then, very naturally, prepared to retire; but
Mrs. Roper held me back.

"*You* needn't run away, young man," she
said.  "I ain't ashamed for anybody to 'ear
*my sufferings*....  Doctor, what's to be
done about me?  I'm very ill."

"Where?" said Dr. Brink, a little brusquely.

"It's a funny question for a doctor to
ask," responded Mrs. Roper.  "I thought
we paid you to find things out.  But we do
not want to waste each other's time, and so
I'll tell you.

"What's the matter with me is that I'm
dying.  That yellow medicine what you sent
me 'as brought the pains on worse than ever.
You will 'ave to try me with some red.  Not
that I look to that or any other doctor's stuff
to cure me now.  Nothing can't cure me
now.  I've been neglected too long.  The
on'y thing I got to look forward to now is
me little wooden ulster.  It'll be a great
pleasure to some people, I know, the day
the undertaker comes to measure me for it.
What are you laughin' at?"

"I wasn't laughing," protested the doctor.
"I was yawning."

"Then what are you yawning at?"

"Up all night," explained the doctor.

"Ah!" quoth Mrs. Roper mysteriously,
"I see, *you're* one of the jolly sort....
What you gointer do about me?"

The doctor equivocated.  "Where's your
husband?" he said.

Mrs. Roper closed both eyes and shook
her head.  "Wherever the man may be,"
she responded, "you may be sure as it ain't
be the bedside of 'is dying wife.  '*E's* one
of your jolly sort, likewise.  'E's one o' them
good-tempered, popular fellars, 'e is.  *'E*
don't want no medicine."

"I was not proposing to give him any
medicine," explained the doctor.  "I would
like to talk to him concerning the painful
state of—ah—health in which—ah—you find
yourself.  When will he be in?"

"Ain't you got some more riddles you
would like to ask a person?" responded
Mrs. Roper, with a bitter laugh.  "How in
gracious do *I* know when the man will be
in?  'E's one of these *pleasant* men, I tell
you.  The sort as is always ready with a
laugh or a joke or a funny remark.  'E ain't
got time, bless you, to trouble 'is jolly self
about no wives.  'E's one of your 'appy
men—the sort that makes friends, and so
on.  'E would rather be out with 'is friends,
'e would, listenin' to their flattery, than sit at
'ome 'ere with 'is lawful wife and 'ear the
*truth* about 'isself.  'E's a plain man, too,
and stammers 'orrible."

"I think," suggested Dr. Brink, "that I
shall have to call again when he is in, and
talk things over with him.  I can see,"
added my excellent and ambiguous friend,
"that what you want is more attention."

"What I want," retorted Mrs. Roper,
"is me wooden ulster.  The sooner the
better.  Attention won't save me now—even
if I could get it.  I'm gone too far.
And what is the use of a 'usband's idea of
attention?  If you want to see the kind of
attention 'e gives me, just cast your eye on
the table there.  Them things in the corner
is supposed to be lemons.  '*E* sent them in.
*Look at 'em*!  'E on'y sent 'em 'cause I
asked 'im, mind you.  Is it much to ask,
d'ye think, Doctor?  And me at death's
door!  Look at 'em, I say.  They're furrin
lemons."

There was a pause.  Then said
Mrs. Roper again, "They're furrin lemons.  I
would say it to 'is face.  I ask 'im on me
death-bed for lemons and 'e sends me them!
Furrin ones!  Don't you think they're furrin,
Doctor?"

"I'm sure of it," replied the doctor.

There was another pause, during which
Mrs. Roper applied a variety of new and
second-hand wearing apparel to her eyes.
But the gift of articulation soon returned
to her.

"I," she explained, with biting irony,
"am on'y 'is wife.  *I* ain't jolly.  *I* don't
flatter 'im.  *I* don't make a fuss of 'im.  *I*
don't make meself agreeable.  *I'm* on'y 'is
wife.  *I* on'y tell 'im the truth.  What does
'e wanter give good lemons to *me* for?"

"If you could let me know when he
returns," submitted Dr. Brink, "I would talk
these matters over with him.  In the
meantime, I will send you round some medicine,
which——"

"What's the good of medicine to *me*?"
demanded Mrs. Roper.  "I'm on'y 'is wife.
You go round to the undertaker's, Doctor,
and tell 'im to send me round a wooden
ulster.  That's the on'y thing as'll bring *me*
any peace.  I ain't one of your jolly sort,
you see.  *I* don't go round to me cousin
Alfered's and make meself agreeable and
play nap.  'Is cousin Alfered's, indeed!  It
isn't 'is cousin Alfered as 'e goes to visit,
Doctor; you take my word for *that*, Doctor;
I s'pose I'm blind, eh, Doctor?  An' deaf an'
dumb an' parulised?  I s'pose I ain't aware
that cousin Alfered 'as got a wife?  *A wife*!
That's what 'e calls 'er!  If she's a honest
married woman, Doctor, 'ow d'you account
for 'er bein' ser very lovin' to 'er 'usband?"

"I have left off trying to account for
these things," explained the doctor.  "About
your medicine now.  I want you——"

But Mrs. Roper had struck a more
fascinating theme than that of medicine.
"Married!" she ejaculated.  "Ha!  Married!
And she ser jolly!  Ser good-tempered, ser
fussy, ser full o' compliments!  No wonder
as my man likes to play nap at 'is cousin
Alfered's.  There's two or three jolly ones
together in *that* 'ouse.

"She's a 'igh-spirited lady too.  Ser full
of romps an' all.  She reads the papers, too,
and listens to their jokes, *and laughs*.

"Well, well, Doctor, it's time that wooden
ulster come.  It won't arrive before I'm
ready for it.  This world ain't no fit place
for me.

"I ain't jolly enough.

"I'm only a honest wife, I am, what sits
at 'ome all day an' tells the truth while other
people makes theirselves ser popular.  This
world is no fit place for honest wives.

"The other ladies are ser jolly; they
makes theirselves ser pleasant.  They fuss
about and flatter you, and laugh at all your
jokes.  They makes theirselves ser pleasant....

"What's a respectable married woman to
do, Doctor?"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BLACK HAT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXVIII


.. class:: center large bold

   THE BLACK HAT

.. vspace:: 2

"What I like Banking Day for," James had
privately informed me, "is because *then*
Fatty always puts on a cap.  He looks so
plain and friendly in a cap."

At which I pondered deeply.

That which I pondered was the important
problem of Dr. Brink in his relationship to
moral authority and the top-hat.

I had to admit to myself that James's
aphorism was justified by facts.  The doctor
did look more human in a cap.  Upon the
other hand, he did not in the least look like
himself.

"Banking Day" is a solemn occasion in
the Brink household.  It happens once a
fortnight.  It affords the doctor an excuse
for making holiday—a two hours holiday—the
only regular holiday in which he permits
himself to indulge.  And of this regular and
recurrent festival, the cap is an outward
and visible sign: the cap and golfing shoes
and a poacher's jacket.  And a solemn black
bag.  The solemn black bag is filled with
sixpenny pieces.  Thus equipped, the doctor
goes into the City—"giving'em a treat in
Gracechurch Street," he calls it—and deposits
the toll which he has extracted from human
misery upon some banker's table.  He then
returns to Bovingdon Street, wearing your
right usurer's leer and a shilling cigar.  And
having in his right hand—the hand he pulls
the teeth out with—a fat, white book.  It is
his vulgar custom, upon such occasions, to
publish loudly a statement of accounts, as thus—

"Forty-eight pounds fourteen and
sixpence.  Do you hear that, my friend?  Do
*you* hear it, Baffin?  One thousand nine
hundred and forty-nine sixpences.  Does
this compete with literature, young man?
Does it equal the material gains of your
art, Mr. Baffin?  Nineteen hundred
sixpences, James, my dear,  nineteen hundred
and forty-nine.  All screwed out of the
working man.  Damn the working man.
What's he made for?  Where's that bottle
of Burgundy?"

The doctor, in this mood, presents an
absurdly human appearance.  His cap—-it is
an old-fashioned neck-freezer, and a trifle
small for him at that—sits usually upon one
side, and he rolls the cigar between his lips
in an unctuous manner, and has even been
known to wear his feet upon the mantel-piece.
It is always his pleasure under these
circumstances to toy with Baffin, who, being
so closely related to the Leicestershire Baffins,
is quite unjustly credited with a secret
sympathy for despotism.  In point of fact,
however, Baffin has no time to sympathise with
anything, except the Baffin School of
Impressionist Art.  But the doctor, when his
cap and the cares beneath it sit lightly on
him, chooses to exhibit a cordial sympathy
for the supposed convictions of Baffin.

"Dirty beggars, these working men: what,
Baffin?" the doctor will observe.  "Have
to be kept in their places.  Eh?  What?
Sixpence a go, Baffin.  Nineteen hundred
and forty-nine sixpences.  A very reasonable
tribute, Baffin; a tribute to education and
elegance and the cultivated mind.  The
feudal system, Baffin, was a fool to our
system.  You must write and explain it all
to the Leicestershire Baffins.  What, Baffin?"

Baffin always offered the same reply—

"You *are* a silly fool, Brink."

Even the surrounding helots recognised
and responded to the psychological significance
of the doctor's City costume.  I shall
always remember an observation uttered by
Ma Levinsky, who kept the fish shop at the
corner.

It was Banking Day, and the doctor,
suitably apparelled and accompanied by the bag,
was walking West, accompanied by your
servant, to whom he had promised to exhibit the
interior of a real bank, and also to show how
one conducts an operation called "paying
in."  And when we passed her, Ma Levinsky
spoke to us, saying, "Cheero, Doctor, ole
love.  Got a baby in the bag?"  This to
THE DOCTOR, mind you!  You perceive the
weird magic of this cap.

But even the two hours of holiday which
the doctor "stood himself" on Banking Days
would come to an end, although it was not
the least remarkable fact connected with the
whole absurd proceeding that the two hours
in question began at two o'clock and did not
end till half-past six.  But when they did
end, the doctor's sudden masquerade would
also end.  The poacher's coat, the golfing
shoes, would vanish, and in their place
appeared the solemn calf—gent's heavy
walking—the not less solemn morning coat—a
somewhat tarnished vestment, but of undeniable
solemnity—and, lastly, the solemnest thing
of all, the final token, the apotheosis—the
doctor's black silk hat.

It was a profoundly aged hat.  A hat of
many lustres, the which had swallowed up
its own.  But it was a *hat*—a black silk hat,
and being such it complied with all the
conditions: it sufficed: it left no room for
criticism.  And you did not catch the doctor
looking human when he had that hat on.

I will not pretend that the doctor loved
his hat.  "It's the price which I pay for my
soul, this damned thing," he once explained
to me.  "I hate to have to take it out with
me, but Democracy insists.  Democracy has
a sense of what is due to it.  In Norfolk, you
could wear what you liked—your mother's
bonnet if you wanted to.  But you couldn't
think what you liked or love what you liked.
Dammit, you couldn't even swear at what
you liked.  Here, you are at liberty to do
what you jolly well please; but as to wearing
what you please—why, that's another matter.
The doctor is known by his hat.  They look
for the hat.  They expect that.  They *pay* for
the hat.  And being an honest sort of chap
(at bottom), I give them what they pay for.
This one cost me ten-and-sixpence."

Neither Ma Levinsky nor her rich relations
would dare to bandy chaff with the doctor
when he was the doctor—when he wore the
hat.  Even the leisured classes, airing their
minds and matter as they propped up the
fabric of the "African Chief," forbore to
utter even a whisper of native pleasantry.
Even the Jew-boys reserved the shafts of
their wit for meaner quarry.  The black hat
awed them all.

I remember a certain Banking Day when
I persuaded the doctor, cap and all, to enter
a public-house.  It was called by the name
of the "Four Soldiers," and a board outside its
windows proclaimed that Devonshire cyder
could be had within.  But when we got within
we found that somebody had won some
money at somebody else's expense, and that
this event was being celebrated.  And our
advent was accordingly received with criticism
and comment: wherefore we departed—quick.

But hardly had we arrived at the surgery
when a messenger appeared—a rather
anguished messenger, not very lucid.  I answered
his ring myself, and can therefore speak
authoritatively.

"Dockeratome, young man?"

"Yes," I said.

"Telms wanted, quick.  Ole Joe Black.
Up the pole.  Barmy.  See?  Murder, see?
Telms wanted."

"Where?" I inquired.

"Never mind where," responded this helpful
emissary.  "Telms wanted....  Dockeratome?"
he finally demanded, after a reflective pause.

I called the doctor down to him at that
stage; and the doctor helped him to unlock
his bosom.  We found that old Joe Black
and his complicated infirmities were to be
found at the "Four Soldiers"—the very house
of cheer which had so cheerfully exported
us about five minutes ago....  I—I wilted.
The doctor smiled.  He also put his hat on.

When we arrived at the "Four Soldiers" I
found myself entering the public-house
parlour of that guesthouse a few paces ahead of
the doctor.  And I also found that a seafaring
gentleman with a broken nose had marked
my entry.

"'Ere's our little love-child come in again,"
observed this mariner cheerfully.  "Drop
Jim a 'int aside the 'ead wiv yere belt-end,
Bill."  But then——

But then—he saw *the hat*!  Bill saw it
also.  Twenty other merry gentlemen shared
also in the vision.  And a silence, a sticky
silence, thick as treacle, suddenly manifested
itself.  And we all looked up at the ceiling.

There was a hook on the ceiling, and a
piece of rope and a man was hanging there,
the rope curled round his body and one leg.
The man was addressing the world beneath
him; and now that the world had grown
strangely silent, his words were plain to hear.

"Call yerselves *men*," the man was saying,
"*I* call ye caterpillars.  Stand by, ye greasy
toads, and watch a true man 'ang 'isself.
'Ang 'isself, d'y'ear?  'Ang 'isself.  I *will* 'ang
meself.  I'll 'ang meself dead as dogs' meat,
and there's not a swab in Limus dare stop
me.  Not one in this room.  Not a
god-forsaken son of a lady in this room.  Not
even you, Tom Tinker."

Tom Tinker being thus addressed made
answer.  He happened to be the landlord
of the inn, and a regard for his own future
caused him to be solicitous for that of the
man on the ceiling.

"Don't you be silly, Joe, me lad," he
answered.  "Don't you be rash.  You'll
regret it, you know; you will that.  Come
down, now, when I tell ye; come down
before ye forget yeself.  D'y'ear me?  Come
down.  You'll make a fool of yeself in a
minnit."

The man on the ceiling replied to this
suggestion by removing a boot and hurling
it at the prophet's head.  In so doing, he
obtained a view of the solemn countenance
and black hat of the doctor.

The strained and tragic expression of our
gymnast's visage immediately gave place to
one of nervous greeting.

"Evenin', Doctor!" he said.

"Evening!" replied the doctor.  "Come
off that hook."

"Whaffor?" demanded the man.

"Because I tell you to.  Come off, quick."

The man began to whimper.  "I can't,"
he said.  "The rope's broke.  'Ow can I?"

"Jump."

"Jump?" echoed the man.

"Yes," said the doctor, "jump.  I'll catch
you.  Jump!"

The man jumped.

We passed out amid a silence more than
ever obvious.  I remember one thing clearly.
The door was held open for me by an
effusive, smiling sailor-man—a sailor-man with a
broken nose.

I walked out stiffly, with confidence,
with pride.  I walked in the shadow of
THE HAT.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ON EARNING SIXPENCE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXIX


.. class:: center large bold

   ON EARNING SIXPENCE

.. vspace:: 2

Behold our doctor on crutches and
having his foot in a sling; deprived also of
all burgundies, by the heartless mandate of
another doctor.  Behold him also in
controversy with his daughter.

"You are perfectly insane," said that lady.
"Doctor Beaver said quite distinctly that if
you so much as moved your leg for the next
three days, he wouldn't be answerable for
the consequences."

"Haven't I been saying for the last three
years that Beaver is an ignorant old quack?"
inquired the doctor.

"And now," pursued his daughter, "because
a drunken old woman comes round and
raves at you, smelling of gin like a—like a
cistern, you calmly propose to crawl out and
go all the way to Burbidge Street, because
her daughter happens to object to the locum.
I'm quite sure he's a very decent locum;
quite the nicest we've ever had.  He's
engaged to a school-mistress, and he knitted
that waistcoat himself."

"The locum is a blasted young pup,"
responded Doctor Brink.

"Heavens!" cried his daughter, "whatever
is the matter with *this* locum?"

"He's giving 'em *real drugs*," said the
doctor, with gloom.

"What if he is?" argued James; "I
don't suppose it'll kill 'em."

"Still," mused the doctor, "when people
aren't used to that sort of damfoolery——  I
don't want my statistics mucked up.
Besides, there's the expense.  And——"

"Oh, blow the 'ands,'" replied his little
daughter.  "You've engaged the man, and
you've got to keep him.  And you've got to
pay him.  He's come here prepared to do a
week's work, so for goodness sake let him
do it.  I'm sure he's willing enough, at any
rate."

"Willing?" repeated the doctor; "my
dear girl, he is the ultimate thing in
eagerness.  I——"

But the doctor's further observations on
this head were interrupted by the entry of
the subject of them—a young gentleman in
correct dress, with fair hair and a face, who
was introduced to me as Doctor Tewksbury.

"I am sorry to say, Doctor," remarked
this young man, "that that old woman in
Mulberry Buildings is dead."

"What!" cried Doctor Brink.  "Poor old
Mrs. Thacker?  I'm sorry.  She was a nice
old thing."

"Yes," assented Doctor Tewksbury, "an
interesting old hag—such marked symptoms.
I wish I'd exhibited bromide."

"It wouldn't have made any difference,"
said Doctor Brink.

"Of course not," responded Doctor Tewksbury.
"She was quite hopeless; but still
bromide was clearly indicated.  Hullo—foot
hurting?"

"Not—not more than usual," answered
Doctor Brink.  "My back was tickling.
That's all.  Any news?"

"Nothin' particular," replied the locum,
"exceptin' a woman in Burbidge Street.
Mrs. Groat, I think the name is.  Had a
sort of row with her.  It's the daughter's
case really—a confinement; but when I got
there the old cow came to the door and she
wouldn't let me in.  Said her daughter had
engaged with you, and she didn't want no
blasted schoolboys.  She was rather offensive."

"After all," said Doctor Brink, rising
clumsily to his feet and holding hard to all of us,
"she *did* engage with me.  It's a damnable
nuisance; but I'll have to go round."

"Oh, rot," cried the locum.  "Let the old
fool rip."

"Wait till Beaver catches you, that's all,"
observed his daughter.

"You *are* a fool, Brink," said I.

"She's been round here twice already,
while you were out, Tewksbury," continued
Doctor Brink.  "All the family's been here,
in fact; they're much excited and very drunk.
I expect they've been working on the patient,
and unless we do something she'll get into
a frenzy and croak.  I shall have to go.
Where's my damned hat?"

"Now look here, Fatty," expostulated
James, "you simply aren't going to be *allowed*
to go.  You——"

"Old girl," said the doctor quietly, "subside.
I'm going."

So saying, the doctor grasped my shoulder
in a grip that was not all of friendship.
"You come the other side," he said to James.
"Tewksbury, you mind the shop.  Now
we're off.  Steady, now.  Slowly.  That's
good.  Steady, now.  Steady.  Good again.
Oh, Kreisler!"

It was an exciting journey across the
sitting-room, and that down the stairway
even more so.  And when at last we gained
the street, the bulk of the journey lay before
us.  We accomplished it somehow—it lasted
less than a year, at any rate—and when we
had at last arrived at the interesting
residence of Mrs. Groat, and had deposited the
doctor on its doorstep, the lady herself came
out to greet us.

"'Ow," she said, "yuv come at last, ye
bleedin' makeshift!"

We pushed him inside, and the door was
closed behind him, and we walked about and
waited.  When, nearly an hour later, the
remaining fragments of my rash friend were
restored to us, Mrs. Groat came after them
and made further speech.

"Ye spiteful old crow," she cried.  "Ye
didn't 'arf make 'er 'oller, did ye?  I'll show
ye spite.  I'll pay ye out for bein' ser spiteful.
Jes'you see.  I'll pay ye out."

Which she did.  For when, after making
the homeward journey in such a fashion as
to cause amazement and amusement to the
whole neighbourhood, we did arrive at the
doctor's own house, it was to find that a
medicine bottle had found its billet on the
consulting-room floor by way of the
consulting-room window.

Tewksbury came down and helped us to
carry the doctor up.  And when we had
flopped our burden on to a couch, and
Tewksbury had leisure for reflection, he
said—

"You will never convince me that this
was all produced by burgundy."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`DIALOGUE WITH A BRIDE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXX


.. class:: center large bold

   DIALOGUE WITH A BRIDE

.. vspace:: 2

She was rather a juvenile sort of bride: so
much so, in fact, that a civilised inquirer
might have supposed the baby on her breast
and the ring upon her finger to be mere
playthings.

It was to be gathered, from her opening
statement, that she was inured to the married
state, and that it held no terror for her.

"If 'e comes it over me," she explained,
"I gives 'im a shove in the marf."

She was an attractive child—rather
freckled and very shrill; but having cheerful
eyes.

"What you recommend me to do about
Mine, Doctor?  'E's queer."

DOCTOR BRINK: How queer?

THE BRIDE: Queer in 'is 'ead.  Won't
talk to nobody.  Won't eat.  'E's learnin
isself to write short'and.

DOCTOR BRINK: But I think that's rather
sensible.

THE BRIDE: More sensible if he was to
bring 'ome some money.  'E's a chair-packer's
labourer.  What's the good o' short'and to a
chair-packer's labourer?

DOCTOR BRINK: Perhaps he has ambitions.

THE BRIDE (*gloomily*): Not 'im.  'E's got
the sulks.  If you go an' give it a big name
like that, 'e'll never get better.  I ain't even
let 'im know I've come to you—'e's ser easy
encouraged.  What 'e wants is a dose o'
your pale yaller—even my ole gran'ma can't
drink that, and she's been takin' medsin since
*so* 'igh.  That's what 'e wants: a dose o'
your pale yaller and a flip be'ind the ear.

DOCTOR BRINK: How old is your husband?

THE BRIDE: Old enough to do some work.
'E'll be eighteen in March.

DOCTOR BRINK: He's out of employment, then?

THE BRIDE (*stiffly*): Well, 'e ain't out of
employment, on'y 'e don't go to work.  There
ain't no call for 'im to go, not unless 'e wants
to.  We're independent.

DOCTOR BRINK: Indeed?

THE WIFE: Yus.  We've 'ad some luck,
through the misfortune of losin' 'is father.
There's a matter of two 'underd pound at the
lawyer's, and more to come, they say.

DOCTOR BRINK: It's a pity he can't find
some work to do.  Two hundred pounds
won't last for ever, you know.

THE WIFE: There ain't no call for 'im to
look for work.  When the money comes
we're goin' inter business.

DOCTOR BRINK: Oh!  What sort of business?

THE WIFE: The 'ardware, Doctor: joiners'
bits and carpenters' tools, and knives and
'and-saws.  It's bin a fancy of 'is'n since
boy'ood up.  That's the meaning of this short'and.
'E's educatin' 'isself for the position.

DOCTOR BRINK: Well, of course, an ironmonger
isn't bound to know shorthand; but——

THE WIFE: Not ironmongery, Doctor—the
'ardware: fine edge tools and joiners'
necessaries, and so forth.

DOCTOR BRINK: But why object to this
shorthand?  After all, it keeps him out of
mischief.

THE WIFE: It ain't the short'and I object
to.  It's him.  Forever at home: forever
makin' his scratches.  Forever lookin' sulky
and cleanin' 'is nails.  Never a word to say
to me, nor so much as a look for the child.
'E was 'armless enough when I married 'im.
Full of life 'e was in them days.  Many's the
'idin' 'e's give me!

DOCTOR BRINK: Cheer up!  He'll get
lively again one of these days, and give you
another hiding.  Even shorthand ceases to
amuse people after a time.

THE WIFE: Short'and don't amuse 'im.
It on'y makes 'im stupid.  'E don't wanter
learn it, not reely: 'is 'ead ain't good enough
for learnin'.  'E likes to make me wild, that's
all.  As for hidin's, it's *'im* what gets the
'iding now: I don't believe in a girl takin'
any o' that when you're married.  Walkin'
out it's different.  Besides, I earned it then.
I was a devil arter the boys in them days.

DOCTOR BRINK: Oh, well: you were only
a young thing then, of course....  About
this husband of yours; what is it you want
me to do?  I can't cure shorthand, you know.

THE WIFE: Well, Doctor, I don't see's
there's anything you *can* do, reely.  Only, I
wish 'e'd go back to the chair-packin'.  'Ome
ain't 'ome with your man always in it.  And
'e's ser sulky and ser pertickler.  'E says we
gotter go to church now that we've retired
from work.  We're goin' ter have our shop
front painted red.

DOCTOR BRINK: I always look upon red
as one of our leading colours.  As you say,
there is really nothing which I can do.
Anyhow, we've had a useful little chat.

THE WIFE: I like a little chat.  It's a
thing I don't seem to get very orfen,
nowadays.  Me and my mother, we don't know
each other.  She says we killed 'is father.
She says I don't manage my baby.

DOCTOR BRINK: I shouldn't argue with
him.  He'll get used to this money in time,
and then he'll be as noisy as ever again.

THE WIFE: Argue with 'im?  Me?  I
don't argue with 'im.  When I got anythink
to say to 'im, 'e gets it aside o' the 'ead.  I
don't care, even if we 'ave retired from work.
I go on the same now as what I did before;
and so I shall when we've started the
'ardware.  Sometimes I wish this misfortune to
'is father 'ad never 'appened.  I liked 'im
better in the chair-packin' days.  I didn't
see ser much of 'im.  'E wasn't ser pertickler.
'E took a pleasure in his tea them days.
Sometimes he useder catch 'old of the kid....
And sometimes he useder lark about
with me....  I liked the look of 'im them
days.  Sometimes, I wish we wasn't rich.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AN INTERLUDE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXI


.. class:: center large bold

   AN INTERLUDE

.. vspace:: 2

One result of my acquaintanceship with
Doctor Brink is not entirely pleasant.  I
have developed a sort of interest in poor
people.

I am always lighting, in odd corners, upon
what I call "Brink cases."  Such experiences
pursue me even into respectable places.  I
bumped into one, lately, within a stone's
throw of the Houses of Parliament, to which
place I was bound at midnight.

The clouds were showing heavy and black
upon a moonlit sky as I turned on to the
Thames Embankment by Hungerford Bridge,
so that I shivered extensively.  These
September nights, at best, do not add much to
the pleasures of a promenade.  But this
night was especially unconducive to philosophic
loitering.  There was wind, and that
constant, dull foreshadowing of rain which is
worse than a deluge.  There were those
hurrying, hump-backed clouds, and their
indefinite reflection upon the greasy surface of
the Thames.  And the clock struck twelve,
and a policeman by my elbow spat and
swore.  And some vessel far up stream gave
harrowing expression to its feelings by means
of that dismal instrument which is humorously
called a syren.  Like the mysterious
stranger in the story books, I drew my
travelling cloak around me, and shuddered
at the windy vastness of it all.

And then I fell to smiling.  For away
yonder, in the mirk, figures were moving
and bobbing, and, by all the saints that care
for vagrants, it seemed to me that their
movements suggested mirth.

"These must be weird people," thought
I to myself, as I went towards them, "who
can find anything to laugh at in this place?"  As
I drew close up to them their figures
stood out more clearly against the great wall
of the Embankment; and I saw that the
prime cause of this apparent joyfulness was
a girl—a girl who was very young, and
rather graceful.

She wore an old straw hat and a heavy
shawl, after the manner of her kind, and
one end of the shawl was much longer than
the other, and was caught up into a bundle
beneath her arm.  So that I guessed her to
be carrying a baby.

One of her companions was a middle-aged
man of round and rather stupid build.  As I
came up he was moving slowly from one foot
to the other, and wagging his head.  He
wore a ragged overcoat, which was buttoned
to his ears, and he was waving an arm about
in a manner which appeared to be admonitory.

The group was completed by a second
man, younger than the other, and taller.  He
was holding a hand to his face, which the
girl had evidently buffeted.  The young
fellow was saying something which I could
not catch in a plaintive voice, and the
girl—jocund creature—was leaning against the
wall, swaying and shaking with silent
laughter.

That mournful syren still jarred upon one's
ears, and set a cog-wheel running up one's
backbone; the dark clouds jostled each
other as before, and were reflected in the
oily sludge beneath them; the wind blew
from every quarter at once, and the fallen
leaves that lay upon the footway rustled in
it like a shroud.  And this girl leaned up
against a pillar and shook herself with
laughter.

Then I went closer still and perceived
my folly.  The girl was not laughing at all.
That which I had supposed to be mirth was
really its opposite.  The girl was *crying*—crying
silently and effectively, and without
ostentation.  When feminine lamentations
are conducted with this sort of restraint
there is usually a reason for them.

The stupid man spoke to the girl.  "Why
don't you take 'eed to what 'Erb says?" he
demanded.  "Why dontchew go 'ome?
There's sense in what 'Erb says."

And then the young man spoke, saying,
"That's right, ole Emma.  Come along
'ome, ole Emma."

The girl crept closer to the wall, flattened
herself against it, as if she sought protection
there.  "I—I wown't gow 'owm," she said,
between the sobs.  "I wown't move from
'ere, I wown't, till it's nine o'clock.  The
gentleman said, 'Come back at nine o'clock.'
'Come back at nine o'clock,' he said.  You
'eard what 'e said, 'Erb.  I wown't move
from 'ere, I wown't."

'Erb went closer to her.  They were all
so occupied with this discussion that I am
sure my presence was not observed.  It was
as though I wore some mantle of invisibility.
I could have danced a hornpipe, I believe,
without attracting notice....  "What's the
good of talkin' like that?" said 'Erb to the
girl.  "Come along 'ome, Emma."

"I wown't move a *step* from 'ere, I
wown't," responded Emma.  "You 'ear
what I say?  I wown't move, I tell you.
The gentleman said, 'Come back at nine
o'clock,' an' at nine o'clock I'm goin'
back—to see my baby.

"... If you *was* a man you'd take me
over *now*"—she pointed, vaguely, in the
direction of Charing Cross Hospital—"you'd
take me back and fight 'em, you would, till
they let us in.  What they want to turn us
out till mornin' for?

"I wanter see my baby, I do.  My baby'll
die afore it's morning.

"'Come back at nine,' the gentleman
said; and all its pore arm turned stiff, an'
white, an' swollen.  What you wanter move
that lamp for, you fool?  Why did you open
the door?  Did you 'ear 'im 'oller?  Oh,
Christ! did you 'ear 'im 'oller?  We'll
lose 'im, 'Erb: my Gawd! we'll lose 'im.
Did you 'ear what the gentleman said?
'Come back at nine to-morrow mornin',' 'e
said.  What'd 'e want to turn us out for, the
swine?  What you want to go 'owm for?
My baby's *there*, you ape: over there, with
the nurse an' the gentleman.  Think I'd go
'owm wiv the likes o' *you* an' leave 'im?
What you wanter move that lamp for?  Did
you see it runnin' all over 'im, an' 'im
'ollerin', an' cuttin' 'is feet in the glass of the
chimbly?

"Did you—did you?  Go away, I tell you.
I wown't move, I tell you.  The gentleman
said, 'Come back at nine.'  What you wanter
worry me for?  What you wanter stop for?
I want my baby—I—I—you makeshift, you,
I *'ate* you."

And the young man twisted his cap
between his fingers, and drew a little closer
to her, and said, "Come along 'ome."

"Yus, go along 'ome," supplemented the
stupid man.  "You can't stop out 'ere all
night.  And what's the good o' worryin'?
People's got to pay for bein' married an'
that in *this* world.  It might be worse, you
know, young Emma——"

"Ah!" interpolated the younger man.
"It might be worse, you know, ole Emma!"

"What is it, after all," pursued his stout
companion, "what is it, after all, to bury
a baby?  I remember well when we was
nailin' up our Number Three——"

The stout man's reminiscences ended
suddenly.  It was the fist of the younger
man which ended them.  "Chew that, ye
one-eyed wind-bag," observed its owner.

Then, drawing Emma gently from the
wall, he placed his arm about her, and
whispered something in a voice which
aspired clumsily to be hopeful.  Now that the
girl was facing me, I could see that she did
not carry a child, as I had at first supposed.
It was merely an end of shawl which she
carried—a rude sort of nest or pocket,
pressed close to her bosom, as if in waiting
for some tender burden.

"Come along 'ome, ole girl," the young
man urged.  "What's the use o' dawdlin'?"

"Go away!" replied the woman.  "Leave
a girl in peace, can't you?  I'm waitin' for
my baby.  I'm waitin' for nine o'clock, like
the gentleman said....  I wonder if 'e's
sleepin'?  I wonder if they've 'urt 'im? ... I
wonder if he's dead?"

"Ain't you comin' 'ome?" pleaded the man.

"Ain't you goin' away?" the woman
answered.  "What's the good o' pesterin'?
Can't you 'ear what I tell you?  Do you
wanter send me mad—fussin' an' pesterin'?

"There's a clock; one, now, an' the
gentleman said nine."

"That was 'arpas' twelve struck then,"
observed the stout man.

"And the gentleman said nine," sighed
the girl.

"Think e'll 'ave 'is mind back be the
mornin', 'Erb?  'E never knowed nothin'
when we left; never knowed nothin' when
I carried 'im out from 'ome.  Did you
see 'ow fast 'is teeth was?  Did——  The
gentleman said, 'Don't worry.'  Must be a
fool.  What did you wanter move the lamp for?"

"Table was so full, an' the cloth was
draggin'.  Anyone might 'a' stepped on it.
I never meant no 'arm, ole Emma."

"Bin all right if the door was shut.
Might be nursin' 'im now, 'Erb, in yere
overcoat, 'stead of 'im——  Did you see
ow drored out 'is fingers was when the
gentleman come to look?  'Ow long before
nine?  Think they'd let us in before?  It's
all through that door bein' open.  That
curtain it——  Gawd's Truth, 'Erb, it was
the *noo* curtain what I put up yesterday.
It was *my* curtain.  *I* done it, I killed my
baby."

"'*E* ain't killed," asserted the fat man.
"Be as right as I am in a twel'month."

"I put up that curtain to show off; that's
all I put it up for.  And it blew on to the
lamp, an' it—it—Gawd blind me, I've killed
my baby."

"That's a lie!" shouted the man.  "Didn't
I leave the door open?  Didn't I shove the
dam thing right under the curtain?  Begod,
I did.  Don't tell lies to yeself, ole Emma.
It was me as done it.  It was me as burnt
that little beggar's arm.  Wish to Gawd I'd
burnt me eyes out first."

"Go' bless my soul," observed the stupid
man, "what *is* the use of quarrellin' over
trifles?  Whatever does it matter whether
the lamp moved the curtain or the curtain
moved the lamp?  Thing's done, ain't it?
Boy's arm's all charred up.  Why argue?
Take an' get a good night's sleep.  Ain't
we all 'ad trouble?  When my first went
down——"

"I 'it 'im to-day," said the woman.  "For
eatin' coal, it was."

The man drew her hand into his, which
was not more rough and shapeless.  "'E
thought the world o' you, ole Emma," he
observed.

"'Ow long to nine o'clock, 'Erb?  'Ow
long afore they'll let us see 'im?  The
gentleman said, 'Don't worry.' ... We was
mad to leave 'is cradle there."

"It's all so full in the room," replied 'Erb.
"I was gointer move next quarter.  Allus
next quarter, Gawd strike me!  If we'd
took that room we was lookin' at Easter
time, there was gas there an'—an'——"

"I *wanted* to 'ave it," whined the woman.

"When," pursued her husband, "when I
was puttin' them rockers on the sugar-box,
I *did* say as we'd 'ave a 'ooded top, to finish
it.  But I changed me mind.  Devil take
me!  I changed me mind."

"It'd 'a' saved 'im, that would," observed
the woman.  "We'd 'a' found 'im sittin' up
an' laughin' at the fireworks....  Remember
that day when the water come in?"

"R!" answered the man.  "Rare tickled
'e was.  Remembers it to this day.  I'll lay
any money 'e was tryin' to tell me about
it when we was in the park o' Sunday.
'E——"

"Oh, Christ! my baby," cried the woman;
and she lay sobbing in his arms.

He led her to a seat, and she cried silently
upon his shoulder for a long, long while.
When she next spoke it was to wonder
about the time.  "Is it *very* long to nine
o'clock?" she inquired.  And the man said,
"Not so very.  You lie still, ole Emma:
you're all right; you lie still."

Then Emma remembered that by moving
the tin trunk which stood by the wash-stand
to an empty niche beneath the table, a place
of security might have been provided for
that sugar-box.  And they discussed all the
other might-have-beens: and his beauty, and
cheerfulness, and the surprising precocity of
his speech.  She trembled, and sobbed and
sobbed, and her husband swore.  They
talked about all the other might-have-beens
again; and the stupid man faced them,
scratching his head, and saying:

"What *is* the use of all this argument?"

After which the constabulary arrived, and
flashed lamps upon them; and they rose
heavily, and moved away.

But I found them, presently, upon another
seat.  Emma's blue-white face was upon her
husband's shoulder, and her lips were tightly
clenched as she spoke to him.  "'Ow long
we got to wait till nine o'clock?" she asked.

"Not so long," replied the man....
"You lie still, ole Emma."

She sighed, very slowly.  And I noticed
that a hummock of shawl was caught up
close beneath her arm.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`LOW FINANCE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXII


.. class:: center large bold

   LOW FINANCE

.. vspace:: 2

He was a self-complacent, ox-voiced man,
and being clothed on with his Sunday
blacks, he looked objectionable.  He surged
into Dr. Brink's consulting-room all frothy
and foamy with fellowship.  "Evenin',
Doc.," he gurgled.  '"Ow's yeself?"

"Let me see your tongue?" said the
doctor, who was tired and absent-minded.
This was the ninety-seventh tongue which
he had clamoured for that day: a fact which
perhaps accounted for the absence from his
manner of that sympathetic and anecdotal
touch which distinguishes those learned men
who follow the reputable or credit branch of
his profession.

"It ain't about meself I've come, ole
man," explained the visitor.  "Leastways,"
he added, with an air as of scrupulous
exactitude, "it ain't about me present self.  I
come to thank you for all your goodness to
me during my accident."

The doctor responded with a wondering stare.

"I come to thank you for all your goodness
to me, Doc.," repeated the man.  "And,"
he added, as one giving utterance to a careless
afterthought, "to see about my little bill."

"When did I attend you?" demanded
the doctor.

"When did you attend me?" repeated
the patient reproachfully.  "Why, you
attended me twice.  I am that serious driving
accident what you was called in to look at four
weeks ago.  And I bin round to see you
once since then."

"Serious driving accident," mused the
doctor.  Then—with an acid smile—"I think
I remember now.  The accident suddenly
showed itself in your shoulder, didn't it, five
days after the occurrence?  And I couldn't
find the place, could I?  Not even a bruise."

"It was very painful, Doctor," explained
the invalid; "one of them inward bruises.
They do say as that's the worst sort o'
damage as kin 'appen to a man, getting a
inward bruise, same's what I did.  I bin
layed up fower weeks 'long o' that accident."

"And it took five days to mature.  Ever
heard of a disease called 'afterthought'?"

"Can't say rightly as I 'ave," admitted
the sufferer.

"It is a curious sort of complaint," the
doctor explained; "attacks a man very
often in cases like this.  Quite small things
aggravate it, too; talkative friends, for
example."

"Will you make the bill out, Doctor?"
requested the victim of this strange ailment.

"No need for a bill, is there?" said the
doctor.  "I can tell you what you owe me
out of hand.  One visit to your house, one
consultation here: total, eighteenpence."

"I'd prefer a proper invoice, Doctor,"
admitted the maimed one.  "And look 'ere,
ole man, make it out fur a sovereign, will
ye?  I ... I want to show it to my firm."

"With pleasure," said the doctor.  "Have
you brought the sovereign with you?"

"Eh?" snapped the man.

"I asked if you had brought the sovereign,"
repeated the doctor.  "If your firm is
prepared to pay me a sovereign for my services
to you, I shall, of course, be delighted to
make out a bill for that amount."

"But you on'y seed me twice," protested
the visitor.

"That is what I wish to point out.  My
proper fees amount to eighteen pence.  But
if you want to pay me a p——"

"I *don't* wanter to pay you a pound,"
bellowed the petitioner angrily.  "Nothing so
ridiculous."

"In that case," responded the doctor,
"let us say no more about the bill."

"Do you call yeself a genelman?"
demanded this martyred soul, with a choke
in his voice.  "Do you call yeself a
genelman to stop a pore drayman from earnin'
his honest compensation?  'Ow'm I goin' on
for compensation?"

"Compensation for what?" inquired the
doctor.

"Fur me accident," replied the man.  "I
bin laid up fower weeks."

"One day of which," the doctor pointed
out, "you spent in bed.  Did they stop your
wages?"

"Well, no," admitted the martyr.  "They
paid me me wages all right.  But I ain't
drored nothink fur me accident."

"You drew a very comfortable holiday, at
any rate," suggested the doctor.  "A four
weeks' rest cure on full wages.  And that
shoulder, you know, it was not what one
could call a permanent injury: it hardly
amounted to disablement.  Do you think so?"

"Words," stated the sufferer, "cannot
describe the agonies what I bin through."

"You surprise me," murmured Dr. Brink.
"Anyhow, you've been strong enough to do a
lot of standing about outside the 'African
Chief.'"

"What if I 'ave?" submitted the injured
man.  "Ain't I still entitled to compensation
fur my accident?"

"It seems to me you've had it," argued
the doctor.

"That I ain't," asserted the indignant
claimant; "not a blighted 'a'penny."

"Four weeks' rest, full pay," recited the
doctor, with an air of monotony.

"Wiv me shoulder-blade all to Bucklesbury,"
added the claimant.  "And not a
brazen farthing fur me accident.  I 'ad the
corpuscular accident all right, I suppose?
Ye don't deny it, do ye?"

"By no means," exclaimed the doctor.
"Didn't I myself attend you for a unique
complaint in the shoulder-blade?"

"Very well, then," pursued the invalid,
somewhat mollified by this admission.  "In
that case I demand my rights.  I demand
the rights of a honest workin' man.  I ask
for compensation for my accident, same's
what I'm entitled to accordin' to lor.  Will
you write out that invoice fur me?"

"Certainly: for the exact amount which
you may care to pay me."

"Do you call yeself a man?" demanded
the visitor, with heightened colour.  "What
the scarlet letter do ye reckon I engaged ye
for?  Think I wanted ye for the sake of yere
filthy physic?  Ain't ye got no 'eart?  Make
out the invoice like a fair-minded man.  Never
tell me as you'd 'ave the 'eart to rob a pore
man of 'is money....  They've refused to
give me compensation fur my accident, and
now 'ere's you—a genelman born, as oughta
be above sich actions—you're gointer rob
a pore man of 'is doctor's bill....  Besides,
I *tole* 'em that I owed a sovereign to the
doctor, and they tells me to produce the
invoice....  What am I to tell my firm?"

"Tell them what you like," replied the
doctor.  "I certainly shall give you no
receipt for money which I haven't had."

"Then 'ow do I go on?" queried the visitor.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

'"Ow'm I goin' on fur compensation—fur
my accident?"

The doctor repeated his shrug.  "It seems
to me," he said, "that your firm has treated
you well.  You don't know much, you know."

"I may be a fool," admitted the afflicted
one, "but I know my rights.  I oughter be
paid some compensation fur me accident....
You won't do nothing to 'elp me, then?"

"I can't," replied the doctor.  "What you
want is a new head."

"Do I?" retorted the caller, flourishing
his wounded arm.  "That's the very thing
as *you'll* be needin', ole sport, if ever I meets
you outside.  Call yeself a man?  *I* call you
a swindlin' 'pothecary.  I tell you one thing,
Mister Whatsitname.  Whenever I 'as another
haccident, I takes it to the bloomin' 'orspital.
I do know *that* much.  See?"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE MOTHERS' MEETING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXIII


.. class:: center large bold

   THE MOTHERS' MEETING

.. vspace:: 2

The morning callers at Dr. Brink's dispensary
are all of them women or little children.
You may suppose that the waiting-room
wears then a strange and wistful air, for the
men being absent, with their hoarse, funereal
pleasantries, and the shuffling young boys
being absent too, and the girls likewise,
having carried their titters and squeaks to
the factory, there is not much to amuse folk
in the waiting-room.

You cannot expect a married woman to
be very cheerful at the best of times, and
when there is the place to tidy and the rent
man expected, and the children will soon be
coming home for their slabs and what not,
and you have slipped out just for half a tick
to get that dizzy feeling seen to, it is more
than usually dull to be sat in a row with
twenty other females, similarly cursed—some
of them having babies at their breasts or
little squalling things what hold fast to their
skirts, and the place that stuffy and all, and
a stink of iodine coming out of the doctor's
room.  Taking one consideration with
another, it is not to be wondered at that the
morning patients do not wear that air of
curiosity and pleasure which a visit to the
doctor should properly occasion.

The morning patients have an absent-minded
look—a dull, foreboding look, as of
people who are too busy really to enjoy
themselves.  Some of them, also, are
accompanied by their button-holes or other objects
of light and profitable home employment, at
which they work with assiduity whilst waiting
for the doctor's call.  Others, upon the
other hand, bring peppermint drops.  One
lady has brought some literature—the
outward wrapper of an ancient issue of a paper
called *The Pilot*.  So there they loll, all
silent, many of them yawning—out of
rudeness, or boredom, or fatigue, or something,
one supposes.

If you sit upon the gas-stove, you can
watch them all as they come into the
consulting-room.  You can watch, for instance,
the experienced matron, who enters with the
baby that *won't* get well, and dumps it down,
in a business-like manner, upon the doctor's
table.

"There you are," she says in the manner
of one who has successfully completed a
conjuring trick, "look at that tongue.  Did
*ever* you see sich a thrush?"

"M'yes!" admits the doctor.  "It's pretty
bad.  I'll give you a powder and some syrup."

"Powder?  Syrup?" echoes the matron.
"H'm!  Pity you can't give 'im a corfin.
That's the on'y treatment what'll give any
peace to *this* pore little swine.  What mercy,
*I* say, is there in letting a thing like this live
on?  Look at it."

When, to your great relief, the experienced
matron goes away, you will be very lucky if
you do not wish her back again, for it is ten to
one that she will be followed by an apprentice
to the trade, a poor wild thing whose
senseless, shiftless, screaming mother-agony will
hurt you ever so much more than the grim
philosophy of the veteran.

"It seems to grip 'im, Doctor," the
apprentice will say, "and throw 'im down,
pore lamb, an' wrestle with 'im, Doctor,
same's there was a fish-bone in 'is little
throat, and 'im so weak, 'e don't have
strength enough to 'oller, and 'im so blue
and mottled, Doctor, and strangled-looking
in the face, and the powder, that ain't doin'
'im no good.  The Irishwoman down below,
she dreamt she seed 'im in a shroud, and,
Doctor, I see meself as 'e gets thinner, and
I believe me milk 'as got some poison in it,
along of some oysters what I eat one
Sunday, and so I see 'im gettin' thinner, Doctor,
and there's the strangled look a-comin' *now*!
Won't you give 'im somethink, Doctor?
What did you say I was to take 'im to the
breast for?  I tell you my milk 'as got the
microbes in it.  Oh, Christ! what can a
woman *do*?  And Mine he comes 'ome late
and stands and swears at me wiv no more
feelin' than a 'og.  Me gran'father Murphy's
eyes 'e's got.  There, then, sonny; there,
then.  What'll you do for 'im, Doctor?  I
seed a black cat on our winder-sill last night.
My Gawd!—see 'ow it grips 'im!"

By the time you feel disposed to come
back to the gas-stove again it will be seen
that the apprentice mother has given place
to a grandmamma, who has looked in, as a
friend, to mention that much gossip is arising
in consequence of the extreme youth of
Dr. Brink's apothecary.

Far be it from her—Elizabeth Tebbings—to
be one as would carry idle tales or
utter idle plaint, but the fact remained and
could be very solemnly attested by many
honest witnesses from Mulberry Buildings
that the medicine which she, Elizabeth
Tebbings, had last Tuesday week received from
the apothecary possessed a strange, unusual,
and forbidding flavour—a nasty-nice sort of
flavour which gave you shivers down your back.

"Far be it from me," protested Mrs. Tebbings,
"to cast no slur, especially when
the parints of the party has been friends and
neighbours along with anybody—good neighbours,
too—'is father especially being the
'andsomest man in the Customs service—but
the truth is the truth even though a
young man's parints *is* beknown to you, and
to tell you the truth of *this* affair, Doctor,
young Wilfered Crage 'e *is* young—a mere
boy, Doctor, if you understand my meanin'.
And, unwilling as I am, 'avin' come to a
motherly time of life, for to kerry tales, still
I must say—speaking friendly, mind you,
Doctor—that the medicine *did* taste ugly.
Me brother Joseph tells me there was
stricknyne in it."

The doctor, having closely examined the
water-tap in Wilfered's official laboratory, is
heard to assure Mrs. Tebbings that her fears
of strychnine poisoning are groundless, and
that lady goes out with her confidence
partially restored.  "At the same time," she
insists from the threshold, "the boy *is* young.
And you got to remember that some of your
patients *'ave* died sudden, Doctor.  Look at
that girl wiv 'earts disease what lived in our
basement!"

The next woman to enter has come to
"engage."  "I expect about the first week
in September," she says.  "An' if you please
I'd like to pay a couple o' shillin' orf me
ticket now.  An', if you please, Doctor, will
you give me the ticket with the two shillin'
wrote orf?  On'y will you give me another
ticket, too, without nothink wrote orf?  I
want one so's I kin show it to me 'usband,
see, Doctor?  'Cause if 'e see as I bin able
to pay orf any, 'e'll say as I kin pay the lot
orf, and I want to git a little 'elp from 'im,
Doctor, so's to 'elp me over it all."

This mild and unreproachful statement
will probably provide you with a subject of
thought.  But your attention is diverted from
that theme by the sudden appearance of one
more mother—a hearty, stalwart, red-faced
mother, with an ample bosom.

This mother produces from behind the
door a hearty, stalwart, red-faced boy.  "'Is
teef is rotten, Doctor," she explains.  "I
brought 'im round to 'ave 'em out.  There's
three wants coming out.  They're all the
same side.  See 'em?"

"I see them," replies the doctor.  "But
three teeth at—er—one sitting!  Isn't that
*rather* a tall order?  Don't you think,
perhaps, now, that we'd better take out only
two to-day and leave the other one for
treatment later on?"

The mother grins extensively, shaking her
jolly head.

"Never mind, Doctor," she says, "let's
'ave 'em all out.  It's on'y eighteenpence."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE WOES OF WILFERED`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXIV


.. class:: center large bold

   THE WOES OF WILFERED

.. vspace:: 2

Wilfered, the 'Pothecary, hath a sorrow, or
rather two sorrows, if not more than that.

Some of these sorrows have reference to
his master's interests; and it was in the
capacity of Doctor Brink's familiar friend
that I was privileged to learn some details
of Wilfered's private and professional afflictions.

We were in the dispensary, Wilfered having
just explained that there were limits to the
things which even he could stand; that the
affections of a man and a 'Pothecary could
be toyed with once too often, when a little
maid came in.  She was quite a little
maid—some four to five spans high—the top of
her dishevelled head being scarcely on a
level with the ledge of Wilfered's peep-hole—that
mysterious recess through which he
views and governs the multitude within the
doctor's waiting-room.  The little maiden,
having rapped authoritatively upon the
wainscoting, held up an arm with a penny at the
end of it, and a face enamelled over with
soot and treacle.  Said this client, speaking
quickly—

"Penny powder for a baby six months owld."

Wilfered's expression of general
discontent changed to one of immediate and
particular disgust.  "What do you say?" he
demanded of the client.

"Please," murmured that lady, with the
air of one triumphantly conscious of that
which was expected of her.

Wilfered solemnly shook his head.  "Never
mind about yere manners," said Wilfered.
"What d'ye want?"

"Penny powder for a baby six months
owld," repeated the child.

Wilfered turned from the client to me, a
look as of despair upon his face.

"This is the sorter thing you gotter
contend against," he complained.

Then addressing himself once more to the
child, he uttered a sort of formula which he
keeps for these emergencies—

"We don't sell powders yere.  If you
wanter powder, go to the chimmis."

The infant looked at him hopelessly.
"Mover told me to come yere," she said.

"Under the circumstances," responded
Wilfered, uttering another formula, "we will
let you 'ave the powder.  We won't sell it.
We'll *give* it you.  Nex' time, go to the
chimmis."

"That's the sorter thing you gotter contend
against," said Wilfered again, as the
client departed.

He was about to repeat this observation
for the third time, when his thoughts were
distracted by the entry of another juvenile
client—an older and taller girl than the last,
though hardly a cleaner one.

"Penny soothin' powder for a baby eight
months owld," demanded the new-comer.  She
was the possessor of a wide, immovable smile.

Wilfered bestowed another of his speaking
glances upon your servant.  And to the
client he repeated his formula: "We don't
sell powders yere, my gal.  If you wanter
powder, go to the chimmis."

The lady listened to this statement with
an attentive air.  Then she spoke again,
saying, "Penny soothin' powder for a baby
eight months owld."

"We don't sell powders, I tell you,"
responded Wilfered.

"No," said the girl, "but you give 'em."

Wilfered extended his head a further inch
through the peep-hole.  His nose and that
of the client almost touched each other.

"This is a noo game, ain't it?" demanded
Wilfered.

"What next?  'Cause we 'appen to give
you a powder once, out of our generosity,
seem to think you on'y got to come in yere
to get one on the nod atenny minnit.  Go
to the chimmis."

"Ma towld me to come yere," protested
the client.

"Then," said Wilfered, "you go 'ome an'
tell yere Ma as I refuse to serve ye.  Seem
to take us for a 'firmary.  We don't sell
powders, nor we don't give 'em—except first
time to a reg'lar customer what does not
know our rules.  And if we was to sell
powders, it wouldn't be for a penny, me gel.

"These powders," continued the loyal but
shameless 'Pothecary, "are made up outer
the very best drugs.  They cost *us* frippence.
You go 'ome an' tell yere mother *that*."

The lady went home, to be followed, in
the course of nature—this being, as it were,
"the children's hour"—by another lady,
younger and smaller than any of her
predecessors, demanding "A penny powder
for——"

"'Oose baby?" demanded Wilfered.

"Baby four months old," replied the messenger.

"*'Oose* baby?" repeated Wilfered.

"My baby," said the child.

"You bin 'ere afore about your baby?"
inquired the 'Pothecary.

"No," said the messenger.

"Oh," mused Wilfered.  "What name?"

"'Ilder," said the messenger.

"Mother's name, I mean," explained Wilfered.

"Mrs. Bates, Mulberry Street," said Mrs. Bates's
emissary.

And Wilfered repeated his formula: "Tell
yere mother as we'll *give* 'er the powder this
once, but nex' time you must send to the
chimmis.  We don't sell powders yere."

Mrs. Bates's daughter, having received her
powder, and being as yet without a proper
understanding, deposited the penny with
which she had been entrusted upon the
ledge of Wilfered's peep-hole, and bolted
from the waiting-room.

Wilfered gazed upon this coin with an
air of indecision.  Finally, he picked it up
(between a finger and thumb) and flung it
into the till.  His actions said plainer than
words that he possessed a professional
sentiment which was outraged at the thought of
accepting this tainted money.

And then—for events move quickly in
Bovingdon Street—who should come bouncing
in again but the big girl whom he had
previously dismissed—she of the immovable
smile.

"Penny soothin' powder for a baby eight
months owld," said the big girl.

Wilfered was at first unable to speak; but
when he did so, it was with point and
emphasis.

"I suppose," he said, with scorn, at the
end of his address, "as you kin understand
plain English?  We *down't sell powders*.
And if we did, we couldn't sell 'em for a
penny.  These powders cost *us* frippence.
Did ye tell yere mother that?"

"Yus," responded the girl, "but mother
says she can't 'elp *your* troubles."

Wilfered held on to the pill-tub and looked
wildly about him.  Then, with a deep-drawn
sigh, he held out a powder and took the
penny.

"What is the use o' arguin?" he demanded
of your servant.  "Look what you got to
contend against."





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.. _`STILL MORE OF PRUDENCE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXV


.. class:: center large bold

   STILL MORE OF PRUDENCE

.. vspace:: 2

Baffin came bouncing in one morning and
bounced me off the gas-stove.

His hair was ruffled and his face was
flushed and his eyes were flashing sparks.

"My God!" he cried.  "I—I've made
a weird, a wild, a terrible discovery.  Good
God, who would have thought it!  That
child, mind you, that imbecile.  'God, sir, if
this were a humane and Christian country,
I should be allowed to call the damned
beast out and carve patterns on him."

"You are referring to——"

"Prudence—Prudence," responded Baffin,
with agitation.  "She HAS TOLD ME ALL.
Come in and see her."

Prudence had flung herself down upon a
grimy sugar-box, and lay there, still and
bruised and broken.  There was an awful
quiet in the room.

Baffin resumed his remarks in reference
to the subject of damned beasts.  I hushed
him with a grave, paternal glance.

"Think of poor Prudence," I said.

Prudence rose slowly to her feet.  She
thrust back the hair from before her eyes.

"Oh, my Gawd!  Mr. Baffin," she said,
"you do gow in for the funniest talk ever!
'Ere—I say, when I was down there, do
you know what I see?  I see as there is
a crack in that sugar-box; I do believe
that's where I dropped that picture
powstcard what I lorst 'ere last sittin'.

"Oo-er, it will be all right if we can find
it there, wown't it, now?  I 'ave missed that
card, I can't tell you!  'Cos my mother give
me that card, an' I love everythink what my
mother gives me.  You dunnow *what* a good
mother I got, Mr. Baffin.  She's working
'ard all day to bring me up proper, she is,
an' the place on 'er arm is *ever* so bad still.
If on'y I could learn to sit still, I could earn
a lot of menny to give to my mother,
couldn't I, Mr. Baffin?  'Cos you said so,
didn't you, Mr. Baffin?

"See if I don't learn to sit still; people
that try can always succeed, can't they?
My mother often tells me that.  Be a dear,
an' move the box, Mr. Baffin."

We moved the box, but the card was not
there; and Prudence succumbed to a fresh
outbreak of tears, and had to be comforted
with condensed milk, which she relished in
spoonfuls direct from the tin.  We rescued
this stimulant from Prudence in time to
avert the tragedy of an overdose; and then
she departed.  "I got a friend waitin' for
me," she said, "an' my mother said I was
to be 'ome early.  An' this is my mother's
ironin' night....  'Ere, Mr. Baffin—was you
laughin' at me when I come over funny on
the box there?  'Cos I won't sit for
anybody what laughs at me.  I'll go out charrin',
an' spoil me 'ands, that's what I'll do.  Don't
you think I could learn to do charrin'
if I wanted to?  I can learn a lot if I try."

"Don't spoil your hands," said Baffin;
"they are beautiful hands."

Baffin did not flatter her.  Prudence's
hands were as the hands of a lute-player—slender
and white and sensitive, flowing
from wrists which carried themselves subtly,
like a fair swan's neck.  Such hands, I
believe, may be produced by the simple
process of being folded gracefully for ten
generations.  We often wondered, Baffin
and I, whence Prudence derived those
hands.  That much-talked-of lady, Prudence's
mother, had never been presented to us;
but—frail hands and a frail spirit!  Which
of these was the mother's gift?

"Hee! hee!" giggled Prudence, as she
spread the little hands before her, "yew
ain't 'arf a tease, are yew, Mr. Baffin? ... Funny
'ands fur charrin', ain't they, though? ... May
I flap your letter-box as I go out?
It don't 'arf rattle.  Oo, I *em* a silly girl,
*I* em!  'Ere, I say—when I come to sit
agen, shall I bring my mouth-organ, and
show you 'ow I'm learnin' meself to play
'The Bluebells of Scotland'?  An' you'll
look for my picture card, wown't you, 'cos
my mother give it to me?  And please let
me sit agen soon.  Oy revoy."

When it became quite clear, from the
silence of the letter-box flap, that Prudence
had wholly departed, Baffin sat himself
wearily down and groaned.

"What the deuce ought one to do?" he
demanded, with great earnestness.

"This being your affair," I answered, "you
will have to think out that little problem for
yourself.  The circumstance of your living in
a Christian country will not ... prove helpful."

"Don't tell Brink," said Baffin.  "He'll
want to poison her."

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



Seven days later Prudence came bursting
in Baffin's studio on a mission of protest.

"'Ere, Mr. Baffin," she exclaimed, "what
about this spyin'?  I down't like it at all, I
down't, and my mother down't like it; an'
will you arst your friend, Mrs. Vesey, to
mind 'er own business?  Seems to take a
lot of interest in me an' my business, she
does, an' I down't like it, an' my mother
down't like it, 'cos it is no business of 'ers to
bother about my business, an' I believe she's
got a lotter funny ideas in 'er 'ead, an' I
down't know what she means, an' I down't
like 'er.

"What's she wanter come to our 'ouse
for at all?  She comes round in 'er carriage,
she does.  Oo, you oughter see the funny
cross-eyed coachman what she's got!  Oo,
and she don't 'arf wear no rings, neether.
An' my mother says you sent 'er, cause she
tole my mother so, and what does she wanter
come fussin' round *our* place for—settin' the
neighbours talkin'?  An', 'ere, I say,
Mr. Baffin, she's gointer take me to the London
'Ippodrome."

"You leave it to Mrs. Vesey," said Baffin
subsequently.  "*We* can't manage Prudence,
but Mrs. Vesey can.  *She'll* fix up Prudence.
Consulted her lawyer yesterday....  Oh,
they'll settle that nobleman all right."

Not long after this conversation Prudence's
visits to the studio were temporarily
suspended.  Prudence was out of town.
Mr. Baffin would explain to inquiring spirits
that she had taken it in her head to go on
tour as a chorus girl.  "A cheap sort of
holiday, don't you know!"

In due course Prudence returned to town.

Her first professional visit was paid to
Baffin, and it pained me to notice that her
very first observation caused that gentleman
to blush.  "I 'ave got some queer friends, I
ave.  What you think some saucy 'ound 'as
done *now*?  Sent along a *cradle* to my 'ouse!
Do you know 'oo it was, Mr. Baffin?  I bin
away, you know—nursin' my sick uncle at
Ramsgate, you know—an' it come while I
was down there.  I on'y got back from
Yarmouth yesterday, an' the first thing I see
was this joke.  Silly joke, wasn't it,
Mr. Baffin?  'Cos Mrs. Vesey was at *our* 'ouse.

"An', 'ere, I say, Mr. Baffin, my gran'pa
died when I was nursin' him at Margate, an'
there's some money comin' to me, on'y it's
goin' to be took care of for me, so's I can
dror a little every week.  An' my mother's
makin' me a noo 'at.

"'Ere, an' I can't sit for you be the day
any more, Mr. Baffin, 'cos my mother's lonely,
an'—an'—I don't like to leave my mother be
'erself all day.  I got to go home to my—my
mother now; an' I can come at eleven in the
mornin', and go away to dinner, an' come
back in the afternoon and stay till teatime—see?
On'y I can't stop later than teatime,
an' I can't stop all day, 'cos I don't like leavin'
my mother, an' I got to go back an'—an' 'ave
a look at 'er, like—see?  Oo-*er*, I *am* late,
Mr. Baffin: I ought to 'ave been back to my
mother 'arf a hour ago.  Oh, do let me go,
Mr. Baffin!  My—my mother might get very
ill if I didn't get back to her punctual."

"Lying little fathead!" observed Mr. Baffin later.

Prudence's faith in our simplicity remained
unshaken.  "Time you went home to your
mother now," Baffin would assert at fitting
intervals.  And Prudence would answer,
"Oo-er, yes; my mother 'll be waitin' for
me.  I mustn't keep my mother waitin'!"

The value of her services grew less (if
possible) at every sitting.  Her capacity for
wriggling returned to her with unabated
force: the giggles came back, too, and the
original fund of anecdote.

Mr. Baffin congratulated himself on these
signs.  "We'll keep up the pretence at
'sitting' a *little* longer," he said, "and then I'll
deny myself the luxury of her assistance for
a month or two.  We'll call it a 'cure' on
Monday."

But when Monday came, I noticed at once
certain evidences of a "relapse" in Prudence.
The tears had come back, and the sulks and
the silence.  Even Baffin's reminder that
mother's hour for being visited had arrived
did not seem to move her.  "I'm an un'eppy
gel, I am," said Prudence.

"I want to ask you something, Mr. Baffin."

"Yes, yes," said Baffin.

"I—I on'y wanted to arst you," Prudence
was saying, "do—do you believe in bookmakers?"

"What?" said Baffin.

Prudence repeated her inquiry.

"I—I don't believe in—in auctioneers,"
said Baffin, blinking.

"I know you down't," responded
Prudence.  "But I want to know your opinion
of bookmakers—*this time*."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A BIRTHDAY PARTY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXVI


.. class:: center large bold

   A BIRTHDAY PARTY

.. vspace:: 2

I was sitting on the gas-stove in Dr. Brink's
refectory when Mr. William Dawkins entered
the consulting-room.  And having applied
my eye to the squint-hole so thoughtfully
provided by Dr. Brink for the education of
his guests, I was able to view and rejoice
in the arrival of Mr. Dawkins.

That gentleman's "entrance," as they say
in the Strand, was decidedly impressive.  He
came in under the escort of three cronies,
and he was wearing a white waistcoat and a
smile and a blood-stained head.  He was
singing.

"Did you collect all this by the side of the
Zuyder Zee?" inquired the doctor, in his
softest bedside voice.

The patient offered no reply to this
question; but smiling, oh, so happily, he
continued to pour forth the fresh, glad notes of
his voluntary.  The largest and dirtiest
member of the escort, feeling, evidently, that the
circumstances demanded explanation, was
accordingly so kind as to offer it.

"This," he said, "is Bill Dawkins.  Young
Bill Dawkins, you know: 'im what works at
the coal-wharf."

The doctor bowed.  "Bill is a hearty
fellow," he said, "and his head has been
banged about damned awful, and you have
not introduced me to him a moment too
soon.  I shall have to stitch that forehead."

Mr. Dawkins received this information
with his sunniest smile.  "Don't be shy, ole
love," he said.  "Bill don't fret, thank Gawd.
My name is Bill Dawkins.  Thank Gawd
fur that!"

"I shan't be shy," replied the doctor, with
a reassuring smirk, as he fumbled amongst a
case of cutlery.  "What have you been up
to, by the way?"

Mr. Dawkins, however, had relapsed into
melody: and the only answer which
Dr. Brink received to his inquiry was the
assurance that he was Mr. Dawkins's Bluebell.

"What *has* he been up to?" asked the
doctor again, addressing himself to the largest
escort.

"Eh?" said that gentleman.

"I say," repeated the doctor, preparing
for action, "that I'd like to know what he's
been up to?"

"'Oo been up to?" inquired the escort.

"William," said the doctor.

"'E ain't been up to nothing.  This is
young Bill Dawkins.  '*E* ain't done no 'arm."

"But what is the cause of all this?"

"All what?" demanded the escort, with a
touch of wonder.

"All this damage," explained the doctor
patiently.  "Has he been fighting?"

"Lord bless ye, no, sir!" whispered the
escort, hoarse with horror.  "'*E* ain't been
fightin'.  Bill Dawkins is a gentleman!"

"Then," cried the doctor, at last permitting
himself to show heat, "who in the
devil's name has been mutilating him?"

The escort looked blank.  "Mutinate—mutinate,"
he repeated thoughtfully.  "I
ain't 'eard about that, sir."

The doctor sighed, and soaked some
dressing.  "Could you think carefully," he
then suggested, "and tell me how he came
to meet this trouble?"

"What trouble?" murmured the escort.
He put his head on one side and opened
his mouth, and his resemblance to an
inquisitive owl was pathetic.  "What trouble
do you mean, sir?"

"*This*," cried the frenzied gentleman,
pointing wildly to Mr. Dawkins's wounds.

"'Is *'ead*, do ye mean, sir?" demanded
the escort....  "O-o-o-h!  *That* don't
matter, sir....  *It's 'is birthday*."

"Oh," said the doctor, applying stitches,
"I see.  A celebration?"

"On'y his birthday, sir: just a plain birthday.
'E's thirty-two to-day, ole Bill is.
It's 'is birthday, see?"

The doctor did see, and he stitched away
emphatically.  Mr. Dawkins left off singing.
And when the repairs had been completed,
it appeared that their influence had extended
far beyond the damaged forehead.  Mr. Dawkins
sat up in his chair a sober man.

"Cheer up, Bill!" exhorted his bodyguard
in chorus.

"I am cheered up," responded William,
with a November edition of the smile.  "My
name is Dawkins.  On'y—on'y me nose itches.
Got 'ny biceps, Doctor?"

"Eh?  What?" snapped the doctor.

"Biceps, ole love.  For pullin' teeth.  My
name is William Dawkins, and when I does
a job I does it thorough.  What's the good
o' makin' two journeys if you can do yere
business in one?  Ain't that logic?  Of course
it is.  My name is Dawkins.  So fetch out
the biceps, Doctor.  You'll find 'im back there
on the right 'and side, sittin' by 'isself in the
pit, a ugly, lop-sided sot 'e is, with a 'ole in 'is
middle.  Fetch out the biceps."

"Do you really want your tooth out?"
asked the doctor doubtfully.  "You've lost
a lot of blood, you know.  Don't—don't you
think perhaps that at some future——"

Mr. Dawkins rose up from his seat.  "My
name is Dawkins," he said simply, "and I've
ordered one biceps.  If you don't like the
contrac', Doctor, there's many another bloke
'll be glad of my custom.  Don't make no
trouble, Doctor.  I'm a friendly bloke.  But
me name is Dawkins.  I likes to soot me
fancy.  I got a fancy for to shift this tooth.
Me and this tooth we don't soot each other.
I get a fancy sometimes, too, as I'll have me
leg took off, because——"

"About this tooth, now," said the doctor,
with haste; "I'm ready when you are."

Mr. Dawkins, to whom the clean white
bandages about his head imparted an air of
weakness and infirmity, replied with a stave
or two from a patriotic ballad, and then
seated himself in a chair.  The tooth was
removed.

Mr. Dawkins then examined the doctor's
forceps and apostrophised the trophy which
they still held.  "Ache away, ye beggar!"
he exclaimed.  "Who's laughin' now? ... What
I got to pay you, Doctor?"

"One shilling altogether," replied the
doctor.

Mr. Dawkins flung down half-a-crown.

"Take it out of that," he cried.  "I never
paid a bob more 'earty.  Nor I never met a
genelman as was nicer spoken nor 'andier.
And when I make me mind up in regards to
this leg I'll bring it round to you.  Me and
my family is noted for our limbs.  There's a
uncle o' mine what 'ad a bone took out o' 'is
ankle what they keeps in a bottle at Guy's
'Orspital to this day.  Comin' out to 'ave
one, Doctor?  It's my birthday."

The doctor regretted that professional
engagements previously entered into
prevented him from accepting the very kind
invitation of Mr. Dawkins.  He also handed
that gentleman his change and a small packet
of tissue-paper which contained the tooth—the
latter offertory being based upon an
immemorial custom of the spot-cash trade.

And Mr. Dawkins expressed his gratitude
in song, and Mr. Dawkins's bodyguard
assisted in the swelling chorus thereof.  And
as Doctor Brink shook hands with each in
turn and received their oft-repeated praises,
he returned to the question which was still
unanswered.

"How *did* that head get cracked, Mr. Dawkins?
A slight dispute, eh?"

"Dispute!" echoed Mr. Dawkins.  "Me?
On me birthday?  Why I bin sittin' in the
'Four Soldiers' as gentle as a clurk from two
o'clock this arternoon.  Ain't that right,
mates?"

"Certainly.  What 'e's tellin' you is right,
sir," confirmed the bodyguard.

"Not even a friendly spar?" queried the
puzzled doctor.

"It's me birthday, I tell you," reiterated
Mr. Dawkins.  "And I bin sittin' like a
corpse in the 'Four Soldiers.'  First time I
bin in there for four months, and——"

"How did your head get cracked, then?"

"That," said Mr. Dawkins, with dignity,
"is what I was goin' to explain, old bird.
There's a Scotchman got the 'Soldiers' now,
you see, and 'e's a iggerant swine,
and——  They've moved the blessed step!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE MORAL SENSE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXVII


.. class:: center large bold

   THE MORAL SENSE

.. vspace:: 2

"Good morning, Mrs. Budd," said Doctor
Brink, meeting that lady in his waiting-room.
"I suppose you've called round for the medicine."

"Well, sir," responded Mrs. Budd, turning
up a red nose and two very swollen eyes, "I
'ave and I 'aven't.  Could I see you privit?"

Doctor Brink led the way into the
consulting-room and lit a pipe, at the same time
inviting Mrs. Budd to "let us have it!"

"Now then, Mrs. Budd, let's have it!"

Mrs. Budd began to cry.

"That isn't what I asked for," explained
the doctor.

"I—I 'ardly know 'ow to—to tell you,"
sobbed Mrs. Budd.  "It's so disgraceful."

"I am always hearing disgraceful things,"
the doctor said.  "You needn't consider my
feelings: they are hardened."

"Well, Doctor," exclaimed Mrs. Budd,
"the truth is that what I 'ad yisterday and
the Dark Brown to-day makes eighteenpence
and I can't pay you.  And——"

"And?" repeated the doctor sternly.

"And—and—I 'ardly know 'ow to tell you,
Doctor: it is sich a disgraceful thing—my
man has stole a 'am and a policeman come
for 'im and they have locked him up."

"I will book the eighteenpence," said
Doctor Brink.

"Thank you, Doctor: you are a gentleman,"
said Mrs. Budd.

"Take a chair, ma'am," said Doctor Brink.

"Not at all, sir," said Mrs. Budd....
"I don't know what you'll think of us, I'm sure
I don't.  And 'im so respectable up to now."

"How did it happen?" inquired the Doctor.

"Well," said Mrs. Budd, "I don't exactly
know the ins and outs of it; but 'e see the
'am in Mr. Biggs's shop and Mr. Biggs was
spinning shillings with another gentleman,
what was a Guardian same as 'isself, and
Mr. Biggs's back was turned and Mine 'e see the
'am and took it."

"The devil!" exclaimed Doctor Brink.

"Yes," assented Mrs. Budd.  "And 'im
ben allus so respectable.  And mind you,
Doctor—I will say this for 'im: I don't
believe it would 'ave 'appened only for the
little gel bein' so porely.  I told 'im what
you said about givin' 'er nourishing food,
and 'e seems, as you might say, to 'ave got
it on the brain.  The job what 'e went after
yesterday morning, 'e never got it after all;
and in the evening 'e took this 'am."

"Ha!" exclaimed the doctor.

"I'm sure we all agree with you," said
Mrs. Budd.  "'Im to 'ave bin a uniformed
porter for all these years and now to turn
thief."

"The Ingrate," observed my friend.
"How is it that he has ceased to wear the
uniform of a porter?"

"Well, sir, you see, sir," explained his
patient, "the company's trade been so bad
they was forced to reduce.  Mine, 'e on'y
went with the last 'underd, and if he'd been
a younger man they would 'a kep' him on.
They give 'im a splendid reference; and
now—if it wasn't for the children, Doctor,
I could do away with meself, to think 'e
should so disgrace 'isself.  It was a big 'am,
sir; they say 'e will get three months.  But
if any gentleman, same as you, sir, was to
say a word for 'im, perhaps they would make
it lighter.  It won't do away with the
disgrace, sir; but perhaps it would come easier
for Budd.  Though I'm sure 'e don't deserve
no pity."

"I should think not," assented Doctor
Brink.  "After being a uniformed porter for
all those years.  And a *big* ham, too."

"And the best quality, also," said Mrs. Budd.

"And from a Poor Law Guardian," added
Doctor Brink.

"They tell me," continued Mrs. Budd,
"that he never orfered no resistance.  I 'ope
you will think of that, Doctor, when you are
considering it over.

"'Is father was an ironmonger, once, in
a good way of business; but he took to
drink and women, and the 'ome was broke
up.  Mine, 'e had to go out and shift for
'isself as a lad of twelve.  It's no excuse
for stealin' 'ams, of course; but—you never
know.  Perhaps this wouldn't never 'ave
'appened if 'is bringin' up was different.
'E's allus bin a sober man 'isself; but when
a person is brought up rough it is bound to
show itself some'ow.

"I am sorry to say we eat the 'am; for
'e brought it 'ome and never said nothing
to nobody, and we was all of us glad of the
food.  The little girl, she *did* enjoy it, pore
lamb.  She don't know now but what it was
honest meat.

"They come and fetched 'im away from
'ome this morning when I was out to sell
some bottles.  I 'ardly like to tell the children,
for they won't 'ardly believe that their pore
dad could be so wicked; only I s'pose
the neighbours will tell 'em, if I don't.
The neighbours is so friendly with my
children.

"It's a shameful thing for a man to do:
to turn thief at 'is age and bring disgrace on
everybody."

"Damned shameful," said the doctor.

"I often wonder," Mrs. Budd ran on,
"whether that dizziness what you treated
'im for is at the back of all this.  'E *'as*
seemed a little strange since then; not much
different, you know; only a little altered,
same as anybody wouldn't notice except they
was about with him a lot, like I am.
*Something* must 'ave 'appened, don't you think,
Doctor, to make a respectable man like 'e
was turn thief?"

"The dizziness may have been indirectly
connected with it," admitted the doctor.  "He
was suffering from a complaint which doctors
call malnutrition."

"He has sent a message," stated Mrs. Budd,
"to say he hopes I won't think none
the worse of him.  He says he knows he
has done wrong——"

The doctor interrupted her with a profane
exclamation.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" said Mrs. Budd.

"I say," said the doctor, "that this
surprises me."

"Oh," cried Mrs. Budd, "'e ain't what
anybody would call a bad man at 'eart;
really 'e ain't, sir.  'Tis something strange
what's come over 'im as made 'im turn thief.
I was tellin' you, Doctor, about this
message.  I sent one back to say I will think
it over.

"'I can forgive,' I says, 'but I can't
forget.'  I mean to stand by 'im, really, if
it's only for the children's sake.

"Besides, he ain't never treated me so
bad—considering.  He ain't always bin a thief.
And he knows he had done wrong.  He
admits that, Doctor.  Perhaps he'll try to
do better in future.  Don't you think so?"

"I can think anything of these thieves,"
said Doctor Brink.

"Yes," murmured Mrs. Budd....  "I
admit 'e don't deserve no pity."

"And he 'knows he has done wrong'!"
repeated the doctor.

"Oh, yes, sir," said Mrs. Budd.

"And he's utterly shocked at and sick
with himself?"

"He's very low-sperited and shamefaced,
Doctor.  He knows he has done wrong-"

"Then," said Doctor Brink, "I'll give you a
letter to the Vicar....  The Vicar, I'm
sure, will help.  Personally I think that your
husband and all his social equals ought to be
locked up for ever.  But the Vicar, I'm sure,
will be charmed to help."

"Thank you, Doctor," murmured Mrs. Budd.
"I'm sure he don't deserve your
kindness; but he knows he——"

"Here's your letter," stated Doctor Brink.
"If you stop here any longer I shall choke
you.  Go away."

And, looking very puzzled, Mrs. Budd
departed.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`LOVE AND HATE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXVIII


.. class:: center large bold

   LOVE AND HATE

.. vspace:: 2

The Hon. Mrs. Strudwicke-Moses came to
tea with Doctor Brink the other day, your
servant being in attendance.  The
Hon. Mrs. Strudwicke-Moses derives from beer;
but she has a reputation for benevolence,
wisdom, and the party virtues which is
envied even by cocoa.

Doctor Brink, finding the minutes between
"calls" hang heavy on his hands, has
devoted them of late to organising a sort of
small relief fund, from which he provides the
most thriftless and improvident and least
meritorious of his patients with milk and
coal and flour.

"It is rank charity, of course," the doctor
has had grace to admit—"charity of the
filthiest description.  But we do flatter
ourselves that our little effort is free from the
deadly sin of 'overlapping.'  There isn't a
really deserving case on our list."

The Hon. Mrs. Strudwicke-Moses had
received an early invitation to assist this
fund, and had lost no time in doing so, the
doctor having intimated that cocoa had also
competed.  And now the honourable lady
was come to take tea.

"I cannot tell you," she said, "how much
I admire the quiet, unostentatious, truly
Christian heroism of you East End doctors.
It may truly be said of you that you give
your all."

"How so?" inquired the doctor.

"Well, look at you!" responded
Mrs. Strudwicke-Moses.  "Here you are, in
voluntary exile, living amid filth and squalor,
denying yourself every luxury, even that of
fresh air, in order to devote yourself to
alleviating the sufferings of our neglected poor."

"You flatter me," the doctor said.

"Not at all," responded his visitor.
"Compare yourself with any even of our
most eminent philanthropists.  They only
supply the poor with money—they merely
give of their abundance.  Now you, and
men like you (pardon my mentioning it, but
I cannot help pointing this out to you) you
give *yourselves*.  You actually see and touch
the poor things, even the most unpleasant of
them."

"That's true," admitted Doctor Brink,
with the respectful air of one who has been
introduced to a new and important truth.
"But," he added, "they jolly well pay me
for it."

The lady made a pretty sign of disagreement.
"You cannot make me believe," she
said, "that men like you are actuated by
thoughts of gain.  It is the cry of suffering
which brings you here."

"That's true, madam," assented the doctor.
"A cry of suffering which emanated from a
bank.  As for the pay question, I may assure
you that I attach the very greatest importance
to their sixpences.  You see, there is a
clear profit—medicine and bottle included—of
fivepence farthing on every one of them,
even the most unpleasant.  I am saving up,
you know, to buy a property—some pleasantly
situated place in Scotland with a
trout-stream.  I have lived on animals all my life,
and I want to try fish for a change."

"You are making fun of me, Doctor,"
demurred the lady.

"Really," protested Doctor Brink, "I was
never more serious in my life.  I am saving
money here at the rate of six hundred a year,
and living well into the bargain.  Which
reminds me to apologise for keeping my foot
up in your presence.  I've got gout rather
badly—the result of Burgundy.  I drink a
good brand, but I drink it to excess.
Suffering humanity pays for that, you know.  The
silly idiots crowd in here by the hundred,
bringing bottles which I fill with a weak
solution of picric-acid and water.  For this
service they pay me sixpence and go away,
believing themselves cured.  It is one of the
simplest methods of acquiring trout-streams
which has ever been invented."

"I don't believe you, Doctor," asserted the
lady.  "Men like you, if money is their only
thought, can get it by easier means than
coming out here to rob the poor poor."

"I could rob the poor in a pleasanter
neighbourhood, of course," admitted Doctor
Brink.  "But then, you see, the living here
is cheap—one economises even on the
Burgundy—and I'm saving up to buy a trout-stream."

"At any rate," protested Mrs. Strudwicke-Moses,
"you like the dear creatures and feel
sorry for their unfortunate poverty.  Now
don't you, Doctor?"

"Are you suggesting, madam, that I pity
the poor?"

"Of course you do," cried Mrs. Strudwicke-Moses.

My friend, with an effort, sat up on his
couch.

"My dear lady," he said, "I am a thoughtful
and unusually intelligent man of forty,
and the only thing which I have ever pitied
in all my life was a parrot in a cage.  But as
for these hungry and verminous creatures
who are saving up for my trout-stream, I
have never ceased to hate and despise them."

"But why?" exclaimed the
Hon. Mrs. Strudwicke-Moses, who, by this time, was
seriously alarmed.

"For the same reason which causes you
to despise them," explained the doctor.

"But," protested Mrs. Strudwicke-Moses,
"I love the dear things!  They are so unfortunate."

"I believe," declared the doctor, "that our
feeling is identical; but, even to oblige a
lady, I cannot call it love.

"When," he continued, "a large number
of stout men are pleased to starve and shiver
for no other reason than that I desire a
trout-stream, I consider them to be worthy neither
of love nor pity.  I consider them to deserve
what may be termed a helping foot, and when
they have paid for my trout-stream I shall
jolly well see that they get it."

Said the Hon. Mrs. Strudwicke-Moses, as
she rose to her feet—

"I must confess, Doctor, that your
bitterness surprises me.  I can't think how
anybody *could* feel angry with the poor dear
things.  For my part," she added, arranging
her furs, "I love them.  They are so unfortunate!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ON A DEAD POLICEMAN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXIX


.. class:: center large bold

   ON A DEAD POLICEMAN

.. vspace:: 2

A small blue document reached the doctor
recently.  I don't remember exactly what
words it contained; but there were references
to God and the King and certain commands
and threats thereto pertaining.  And late
that same night the doctor, looking wistfully
upon a large bottle of claret, uttered these
words—

"That's a deuced good wine, that is, and
I'm dog-tired, damme, and it's a dog's night,
dammit.  But I've got to hustle out into the
thick of it, and do two 'midders' and a
damnable post-mortem.  You'd better come
along."

I went along—not exactly because I wanted
to, but because my better nature told me that
I could drink the doctor's claret with more
decency when claret-time came round if I
had first earned my share.  "But," said I to
the doctor, "I will thank you to take notice
that I have no intention whatever of
watching you perform post-mortems."

"I don't perform post-mortems," replied
my host.  "This is one of the little matters
which we 'arrange.'"

Knowing that this mysterious statement
was one which time itself would explain, I
did not ask any questions, but put on my
boots instead, and we walked out into the
murk and slosh, and the doctor went into
two pig-styes and ushered in two lives, and I
stood in two doorways and caught two colds.

And then we pursued the darkling ways
until they ended in a red brick mansion with
art-metal fittings, one of which we pulled
with such effect that dogs began to bark at
every hand, and a window was violently
opened, and a heavy voice, high up, said,
"All *right*!" very gruffly.

"That is George," remarked the doctor
cheerfully.  "George will have to slip his
trousers on and come downstairs and be
useful."

"George," I ventured to remark, "inhabits
a very fine house."

"Yes," replied the doctor, "he occupies a
pleasant flat.  So well placed.  He is within
a stone's throw of his own mortuary, as I
daresay you have observed."

"Then George——" I began.

"Is the official guardian of our English
dead.  His technical skill is profound.  He
was a porter at St. Giles's for ten years, you
see.  Ah!  Ha!  Here *is* George."

There was a grating of bolts behind the
big oak gate at which we stood, and a little
wicket which was set within the same came
slowly open to disclose an ox-like bulk which
growled out some inquiry.  The doctor,
ignoring this presence, stepped daintily through
the wicket, and I followed.  I then perceived
that we were standing in a courtyard, neatly
paved, and having large, neat buildings upon
every side.  The doctor, jerking his umbrella
towards each of these natural objects in turn,
spoke as with the mouth of a guide.

"Coroner's court is on your right," he
said; "mortuary chamber straight in front;
post-mortem chamber slightly to the left;
coroner's private office still more to left;
jury room just here; apartment for storing
coffins just there; stairway opposite leads to
George's private chambers; dark object there
is kennel, containing George's private dog;
dark object here is George.  How are you,
George?"

The dark object referred to came closer,
accompanied by a very small candle in a very
large lamp, which it held up to the doctor's
face, at the same time exhibiting its own,
which was ox-like in character.  "It's *you*,"
said the voice of the object at last.  "I
thought it might be somebody as was
deceivin' theirself into playin' a lark on me.
'Ow are you, Doctor?"

At this the doctor and George shook hands
with a great display of warmth, and George
set down his lantern and produced a pipe,
and slowly filled it, and slowly lighted it.
"I thought it funny," he then remarked,
between slow puffs, "as anybody should
deceive theirselves into playing a lark on *me*.
What is it to-night, Doctor?"

"Gregory the name is," replied my friend.
"Inquest at ten o'clock to-morrow.  I'm sorry
to have you out at this time of night, but I
couldn't possibly get round earlier."

"Not a word, Doctor," responded George,
as he shook the raindrops from his cap.
"This ain't the latest p.m. I done by many.
Let me see now—Gregory?  It'll be that
middle-aged job from Wallflower Street,
what?  Come in this arternoon.  What?"

"That's the case," responded Dr. Brink.

"Then," said George, "I'm ready when
you are, Doctor.  What do you suspect?"

He moved off up the yard, the doctor
following.

"*I'll* wait here," said your servant.

"That's right," assented the doctor.  "I'm
not going farther than the doorway myself."

"Gentleman's welcome for my part,"
intimated George.  For which the doctor
thanked him.

"But," he said, "I don't think that my
friend cares much for post-mortems."

"Oh!" reflected George.  "There's lots
like that in these days.  I puts it down to
them street preachers.  If you'll wait there
'arf a minnit, Doctor, I'll just switch on the
lights."

With these words the pleasant fellow
entered into an adjacent building, which
presently became illuminated.  I could see
the shadow of his form upon the ground-glass
windows (which were spacious) as he
busied himself with some congenial task upon
the other side.

"You'll be all right out here, I suppose?"
inquired the doctor kindly, while we waited
for the reappearance of George.  "I shan't
be long, you know.  George is very quick.
He knows exactly what I want."

"Who is the poor chap?" I inquired.

"I suppose you'd call him the mortuary
attendant," said the doctor.  "He's really
very skilful."

"I was alluding," I explained, "to the
other poor chap: to him who is to be the
subject of this accomplished gentleman's
skill."

"Oh," said the doctor.  "Now let me see....
What did the widow tell me?  Ah, I
remember now.  He was a retired policeman.
And there's George beckoning to me.
I shan't be long."

The doctor took his stand within the open
doorway through which George had entered.
And I took my stand in the rain, and watched
the doctor's back and the shadow of George
falling upon the ground-glass window-pane
as he busied himself with congenial tasks.

Now and then the doctor would address
some speech to George and stick his head a
little farther round the door-post, and the
shadow of George would draw, as it were, a
little closer to the window-pane.

And after a certain time—a long time, it
seemed to me—the light went out, and
George and the doctor came forth, and
George received five shillings and bowed us
politely out.  He also spat and uttered a
parting *mot*.  Said George—

"He liked his little drop, Doctor—what?"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MRS. GLUCKSTEIN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XL


.. class:: center large bold

   MRS. GLUCKSTEIN

.. vspace:: 2

It was one of those dull, dishonest days
which open with a promise of rain and keep
on promising all the time.  The mothers and
aunts in Doctor Brink's dispensary sat in
couples, brooding silently.

Now and then, at long intervals, somebody
would express herself in a rich, resentful
snuffle or a limp oath; but, generally
speaking, one just sat still and got damper.  And
those ladies who by virtue of seniority were
from time to time admitted into the
consulting-room carried their langour with them.
Their fringes were straight and sticky, and
they knew it, and hope had departed from
them.  They propped themselves up just
anywhere, and slid their empty medicine-bottles
out of one wet hand into another wet hand,
and breathed hard, and pitied themselves,
allowing the doctor to smile briskly and talk.

By the time that closing time drew near
the doctor himself was beginning to feel the
heat, and we began to wonder whether
anything would happen to *his* fringe.

But Mrs. Isodore Gluckstein came in, and
refreshed him.

Mrs. Gluckstein had four chins and a
comprehensive bust, and no visible waist-line,
and she moved with difficulty; but
Mrs. Gluckstein had within her certain fires which
were, as it might be, of the spirit, and
burned, so to speak, with fierceness, and kept
things moving.  They re-curled the doctor's
fringe for him.  Said Mrs. Gluckstein—

"I vant you to eggshammun me, young
men.  I gut low-spirited."

"Will you show me your tongue, please?"
said the doctor pleasantly.  But said
Mrs. Gluckstein: "Rubbutch!

"Rubbutch!" she repeated.  "Vat you
vanter see me tongue for?  Do I keep me
spirits on me tongue, then?  I gut low spirits,
I tell you, and the indigistions.  Vat I vant
is a Noirve Tunnuk.  Ain't you gut none?"

"I can give you a nerve tonic, of course,"
assented the doctor.  "But don't you think
I'd better go through the form of making
sure that you need it?"

"But," protested Mrs. Gluckstein, "I *told*
you det I vant id.  I gut low spirits.  You're
a proper, edugatud, respectable duckter, ain't
you?  Can't you see vat I gut?"

"If you could make it convenient," said
the doctor, "to discuss your symptoms, I——"

"Symptums!" echoed Mrs. Gluckstein.
"I ain'd gut no symptums.  I gut low spirits.
It's so simple.  And I gut the indigistions—shocking!
Vat I reely vant is dem Nelson's
Noirve Beans.  You know dem, Duckter—vat?"

"I have read about them—in the papers.
You 'Try one in your teacup,' don't you?"

"Det's right, Duckter," assented
Mrs. Gluckstein.  "Dem Nelson's Noirve Beans
is vat I reely vant.  I gut der same exact
sickness vat dey make 'em for: low spirits
and indigistions.  It's a fine ding dis Nelson's
Noirve Beans: vat, Duckter?"

"I don't think I should place *great* faith in
them if I were you.  They're made to cure
so many things at once, you see."

"De babers dalks vell about 'em."

"They write those talks themselves, you
know.  The papers get paid for printing them."

Mrs. Gluckstein raised a chubby hand
and pushed this argument away from her.
"I gant 'elp vedder der babers is baid or
nut," she said, "dem Nelson's Noirve Beans
is a good medsun.  Everybody knows id.

"I arst der boy in der chimmis shup
'smornin', and 'e tole me, 'e seth: 'Ve sells a
lut of 'em', 'e seth.  'E vould 'a' said more,
Duckter, but I don't believe dey likes to thell
'em you.  It ain'd der *good* dings vat brings
yer in der brufit.  You notice dat in *your*
business—vat, Duckter?"

The doctor looked at his watch.  "Then
you'd like me to give you a nerve tonic,
Mrs. Gluckstein.  Very well.  We'll see if we
can't manage to rival Mr. Nelson's Nerve
Beans."

Mrs. Gluckstein pushed *this* statement
away with both hands.

"You'll do your best, no doubt, Duckter,"
she said; "but I dink dem Nelson's Beans
is vat I reely vant.  And Mr. Gluckstein
(God bless 'im; long life to 'im) 'e dinks 'id
too.  But dey cust a lut o' money, Duckter,
dem Nelson's Noirve Beans.  A shillin' a
bux I dink it is dey cust.  And Mr. Gluckstein
(may he walk in blessedness) he is a
vise man.

"'Shall ve slay the ox' 'e seth, 'ven der
sheep custs not so dear?'  He dinks the same
as me det it is good medsun, dis Nelson's
Noirve Beans; 'is own mudder (may she live
to be ninety) vas cured from going blind by
dem.

"But ve seth to vun annudder, ve seth, 'a
shillin' is dear for a medsun.'  So Mr. Gluckstein
(may the Lord be friends vid 'im) 'e
consulted vid me, saying—-

"'Never mind about dem Noirve Beans
for de dime bein',' 'e seth.  'You ain'd so bad
enough, in der meandime,' he seth.  'Ve'll
try der duckter *foirst*,' he seth."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`OF HUMAN KINDNESS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XLI


.. class:: center large bold

   OF HUMAN KINDNESS

.. vspace:: 2

"Whether my name is Donovan or whether
it's Smith, I do not wish to be be'olding to
them, Doctor; I do not want their blasted
milk.  That is the long and short of it."

Applying my eye with feverish haste to
the squint-hole, I perceived that she who
uttered these proud sentiments was young
and not ill-favoured, having red hair and
freckles and a "Hands off" expression.
"That," she repeated, "is the long and the
short of it—if you can call it milk at all!
They buy it from ole Tompkins."

"Well," said the doctor, feeling, evidently,
that he was called upon to say *something*,
"well, Mrs. Donovan——"

"One minit, Doctor," interpolated his
visitor, "it is Wilson now, if you please,
Doctor.  Donovan was our name when we
lived in Beddoes Street."

The doctor uttered an apology and began
again.  "Well, Mrs. Wilson, I——"

But the visitor again checked him.  "Of
course, Doctor," said the lady, "you will
understand that *she* don't know me by the
name of Wilson.  I am still Mrs. Bannister
to 'er, same as I was in the ole days, when
she got me to sign the pledge.  Pledge,
indeed!  Fudge, *I* call it.  Did ever you
'ear of a thing so silly, Doctor?  Me not
turned eighteen at the time, and to make me
sign a paper about never touching nothing
for the rest of me life.  And she calls 'erself
a lady.  With 'er airs an' graces, an' 'er two
pennorth o' milk an' what not!  I've broke
the blessed thing a 'undred times, that is one
comfort.

"The joke of it is, Doctor, that they
almost force you to take their blessed milk.
Is it right, I arst you, Doctor, that a person
is forced to be beholding to another person
for such a trivial thing as milk because they
'appen to be sister to the vicar?  You
understand my meaning, don't you?"

"Perfectly," assented Doctor Brink.

"You know yesself 'ow ill I been, Doctor.
Well, then, she come round to my place
every day, she did, with 'er little notebook
and 'er gold-rimmed eye glasses, and what
not, and she says to me, she says:—

"'I didn't ought to be visiting you at all,
not be rights,' she says; 'but you was a good
girl once,' she says, 'one of my very favourite
girls once,' she says, 'though you *'ave* made
mock of your solemn pledge,' she says, 'and
I thought I must come round,' she says, 'for
old times' sake, and ask you what you mean
be wastin' money on doctors,' she says.

"'It's me own money,' I says.

"'Never mind 'oose money it is," says she,
'you ain't got enough of it to go an' waste
on doctors when the Church 'as got a beautiful
sick club and a free dispensary all kindly
arranged for you.  Sich extravagance!' says
she.  'And now, I suppose, you'll expect
us to give you some milk tickets.'

"Did ever you 'ear the like of it, Doctor?

"'I ain't never arst you for no milk tickets,'
I says; 'I ain't never arst you for nothing.
Me 'usband is in work, and I kin buy me
own milk, and I kin buy me own doctorin'.'

"'It's a disgrace,' she says.  'If the vicar
was to 'ear of it 'e would be furious,' she says.

"'Then I shouldn't tell 'im, miss,' says I.

"'Why?' she says.

"'Because,' I says, 'it isn't a sister's place
to put 'er brother into tempers.'

"She raised 'er forrid at me.  'You seem to
forgit,' says she, 'as you are talkin' to a lady.'

"'Quite right,' I answers, 'so I did.'

"She looks at me solemn for a little while,
and then she says, in a sort o' 'lift-'im-gently'
voice, she says, 'I suppose we shall 'ave to
let you 'ave some milk tickets.  I will talk to
Miss Perkins,' she says.

"'But, if you please, miss,' I tells 'er, 'I
don't *want* any milk tickets.  I got as much
milk to drink as ever I want.'

"'Nonsense!' she says.  'I will talk to
Miss Perkins.  A pore woman like you are
didn't oughter be 'ere at all.  You oughter
be in the infirmary gettin' proper attention,
instead o' wasting money on doctors.'

"'But my man is in work,' I tells 'er once
more.  I rubbed in that point 'cause I
thought per'aps she was ignorant about
it—'im goin' to work under the name of Rogers.
But it didn't satisfy 'er, bless you.

"'Your 'usband 'avin' work 'as got nothink
to do wiv it,' she says.  'All the more reason,'
she says, 'for you to save the money while
it is comin' in,' she says.  'Your Doctor
Brinks, indeed!  What's the good of us
Church people gettin' up all these kind
things for you if you go an' get ill in this
'igh-stepping fashion,' says she, 'with your
private medicine and your private doctors?
Wasting your husband's money.'

"'E don't complain,' I says.  ''E likes
me to be independent.'

"'Nonsense!' she says.  'The idea!  People
in your position can't afford to be
independent.  What you working people are coming
to is really remarkable,' she says.  'Ere's
me an' the vicar, an' Miss Perkins, and the
'ole Church workin' 'ard for you all day long,
and all the reward we get is a lot of
impertinent talk about independence!  'Owever,'
she says, 'I'll see as you get the milk.'

"'But,' I tells 'er fur the twentieth time,
'I don't want no milk.'

"'Fiddlesticks!' says she; 'I'll talk to
Miss Perkins.  You kin 'ave a pint a day
for a fortnight.'

"'On'y,' I says, 'I don't *want* no milk.'

"'My good woman,' says she, 'you don't
know what you want.  Nor it ain't your place
to know.  Your place is to take what's given
you an' be respectful.  Next time you see
your Doctor Brink, you kin tell 'im I told
you so.'"

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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"So that," pursued the visitor, "is what I
mean, Doctor, when I say be damned to 'er
blarsted milk.  Do you follow my meaning?"

"Perfectly," said the doctor again, as he
grasped the rebel's hand.  "Perfectly,
Mrs. Donovan."

"Mrs. Wilson, if you please, Doctor,"
corrected the lady.

The doctor offered many apologies.  "I
believe," he said reflectively, "that you are
Mrs. Bannister to *her*?"

"That's right," assented his patient.

"Ah!" murmured Doctor Brink, "I will
write to her and acknowledge her kind
message.  Be gad I will.  Yes.  Ah!
I—I—begad, yes.  Ha!  H'm! ... And now,
Mrs. Ban——Mrs. Wilson, what is this about
the certificate for the insurance company?"

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Wilson.  "Will you
oblige me, Doctor, be makin' it out in the
name of Banks?"





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.. _`THE LAST`:

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   XLII


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   THE LAST

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"It's true then?" I inquired.

"Oh, yes," responded James—"quite true.
Fatty's got a person coming to see him this
afternoon about buying the practice."

"I suppose it's no use asking, 'Why all this?'"

"Well," admitted James, "you know it's
against our principles in this household to
give reasons.  But seeing that it's you—the
truth is that Fatty isn't going to stick it any
longer, because he says he'll be damned if
he does stick it any longer.  He says he's
going to start a pottery and kill them
quicker."

"*You* don't seem so tremendously jubilant
as I was led to expect."

"No-o," replied James.  "The idea was
rather exciting at first.  But I've been
walking about to-day telling everybody the news;
and, really, people have been so awfully kind.
Mrs. Bernstein—where they make the old
furniture, you know—actually cried and gave
me a salted cucumber; and her brother, who
is our fish man, says he's sending round a
hat—why, I don't know—besides a small
plaice which came this morning.  And dear
old Mr. Grimsdick, the grocer, got very
excited indeed, and he says it isn't to be
heard of, and he's coming round to stop it.
And Mrs. Bolt, where we buy our coal, she
said, 'Lord-love-a-duck,' she said, 'what next?
You tell your father to stop where he is.
You tell him he suits us very well.  We don't
want none of your educated gentlemen in
Bovingdon Street.'

"Besides," continued James, "there's
Baffin.  What are we to do about Baffin?
We can't sell Baffin with the practice.  And
what's to become of him?  *We* all know
that he's a genius, but nobody else has found
it out yet, and so he hasn't got much money.
Think of all his pictures stuck to the
washhouse wall!  Fatty says they'll be worth
thousands one day; but they won't come
off the walls, and if we leave them there
somebody else will steal the money.  And
there are all his clothes.  Baffin has been
collecting clothes for years, and these are
all in the washhouse—*somewhere*.  I really
don't——"

James's reflections were interrupted by the
sudden opening of the door, which admitted
a strange young gentleman into our presence.
He was followed by Doctor Brink himself.

"This," said the latter gentleman, "is
Mr. Reginald Cavendish, who has come to
inquire about the practice.  He is charmed
with the situation of the house, my dear."

"What I mean to say," explained Reginald,
having made his bows, "is that you've got
so many windows, and such decent rooms.
One doesn't expect that sort of thing in the
East End.  My pater will be quite pleased.
It's my pater who's going to buy this practice
for me, you know.  I'm studying law, you
know—goin' in for this medico-legal game—and
my pater thinks this'd be a good thing
to amuse myself with until I'm through.  It's
all cash, you say, Doctor....  Ah!  Well,
it saves a lot of fag, book-keepin', an'
that—what?  Not exactly what you might term
'classy,' but—you needn't tell people, eh?
Who's to know—what?

"Of course," continued Mr. Cavendish,
as if in answer to an imaginary objector,
"the patients do smell, I suppose.  But a
chap could have a change here.  A sort of
professional uniform—what?  Ha!  Ha!
This place all right for gettin' about, Doctor?
Easy reach of the West End and all that
sort of thing?"

"We are served by two railways," responded
Doctor Brink, "besides a tramline.
And there are cabs at the London Hospital."

"No motor-buses, then—what?  *No motor-buses*?"

Doctor Brink was able to assure his visitor
that the boon of the motor-bus would not
be absent from that gentleman's future joys.

The cloud which had sombred Mr. Cavendish's
features immediately gave place to a
smile.

"Good business," he cried.  "Whenever
a chap gets too awfully fed up with it, then,
he can nip on to something or other and
have a night at the Pav.—what?  Besides,"
added Mr. Cavendish, "a chap can put up
with a lot for twelve hundred a year.  That's
what it's doing, you say?"

"That's what *I'm* doing," replied Doctor
Brink.  "But then," he explained, with a
mild expression, "I haven't tried the effect
of running the practice from the Pav."

"Oh, quite," assented Mr. Cavendish.
"What I mean to say is, of course not.
But when I take over the practice, I shall
run an assistant: one of those middle-aged
Scotch chaps, you know, with a turn-down
collar.  A chap can afford to have one of
those beggars if he's doing twelve
hundred—especially when he's a bachelor—what?
Ha!  Ha! ... I shall let my assistant do
most of the night-work and the confinements,
and all that sort of thing.  I'm a
consulting-room man, really."

The other practitioner merely smiled.  "I
suppose," continued Mr. Cavendish, "that
you don't give these beggars anything very
special in the way of drugs.  No elaborate
gout cures—what?  Ha!  Ha!"

"It's a faith-cure practice almost entirely,"
replied the doctor, winking at your servant.

"Oh," said Mr. Cavendish, a little coldly.
"Of course, I should run the show on
dignified lines.  They'll have everything in
reason.  I shall do my own dispensing.  You
can be sure that they get the right stuff
then—what?"

Again the doctor merely smiled.

"And now," said Mr. Cavendish, rising
from his chair, "I shall have to clear out.
Got to dine with a couple of chaps at some
beastly club.  I think this will suit me very
well, Doctor; just the thing I've been
looking for—a quiet, steady practice to keep a
chap goin' while he's reading for these rotten
law exams.  You'll hear from my pater, I
expect.  Of course, your price is pretty
stiff, but I'll tell my father what I think
about the show, and no doubt he'll consider
it.  So long, Doctor."

"So long," said Doctor Brink, and James, and I.

"And now," said Doctor Brink, as he
reached for a long glass, "supposing *we*
consider it?"

"I *have* considered it," said James.  "We
are going to stop."

"Why?" exclaimed the doctor.

"Because," replied James, "it is too
awful to think of a person like that being
let loose on everybody."

"A person!" echoed the doctor.  "My
dear girl, that was an awfully educated
young man.  He's an M.B.! and he's going
to run the practice on dignified lines.  What
more can the beggars ask for their sixpences
than real drugs and dignity?"

"Fatty," said his daughter, in a voice of
cold resolve, "if you take me away from
here, do you know what I shall do?  I shall
live with Aunt Isobel and go to school, and
grow up to be a little lady."

"Ha!" cried the doctor, starting up....
"I'd forgotten you.  Bring out the Burgundy....
We'll consider it."

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   THE END

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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.. class:: center large bold

   *BY THE SAME AUTHOR*

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center x-large bold

   KITCHENER CHAPS

.. class:: center medium

   *Crown 8vo.  2s. net*

.. vspace:: 2

"These little sketches are humorous, loving, and
manifestly genuine."—*Spectator*.

"Mr. Neil Lyons writes as the friend and observer of
the New Army; ... is a master of cockney humour....
There are other soldiers in his book, but those who
talk cockney are the most delightful....  As to nearly
everything that Mr. Lyons' cockneys say, we have an
instinctive feeling that it is exactly right."—*Times*.

"There is no writer of our day who is so free from
prejudice as Mr. Neil Lyons, or puts down on paper so
fearlessly the actual dialogue of our streets....  Here, you
will say, is the very man to take down the talk of the
humbler members of Lord Kitchener's Armies.  And you
will be right.  You will laugh heartily over 'Kitchener
Chaps.'"—*Sunday Times*.

"Mr. Neil Lyons' sketches of the recruits in the new
army are splendid, humorous and human pen-pictures,
almost the first genuine literature that the war has
produced.

"One of the sketches, 'Old Nitch,' is a superb little
masterpiece, but they are all very, very good."—*Daily
Express*.




.. vspace:: 4

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   ARTHUR'S

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   THE ROMANCE OF A COFFEE STALL

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   *Crown 8vo.  7s. net*

.. vspace:: 2

"Very pretty comedy ... not only a very entertaining
and amusing work, but a very kindly and tolerant
work also.  At the back of it is understanding and love
of life, and that most admirable frame of mind for an
artist, the live-and-let-live temperament."—*Times*.

"'Arthur's' can cordially be recommended....
Mr. Lyons seems to have the animating gift as well as the
seeing eye, and a kindly humour in selection and treatment
brings out the light and warmth of the stall rather
than its flare and smell."—*Manchester Guardian*.




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   CLARA

.. class:: center large bold

   SOME SCATTERED CHAPTERS IN THE LIFE OF A HUSSY

.. class:: center medium

*Crown 8vo.  7s. net*

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"No one can fail to recognise his rare qualities of
sincerity and sympathy, and his gift for impressionist
character-drawing."—*Punch*.

"It is a true picture—and the courage of the
under-people is daintily, sincerely, and dexterously revealed.
One is glad to have known Clara."—*Daily Mail*.

"All are admirable, and one could only wish that every
worker in philanthropic or municipal machinery would
learn them by heart."—*Nation*.




.. vspace:: 4

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   SIXPENNY PIECES

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   *Crown 8vo.  7s. and 2s. net*

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'Sixpenny Pieces' is as good as 'Arthur's.' ... For
a book full of laughter and tears and bits innumerable
that one feels impelled to read aloud, 'Sixpenny
Pieces' would be very hard indeed to beat."—*Evening
Standard*.

"Those who remember 'Arthur's,' by the same writer,
will not need to be told what excellent use he makes of his
opportunities.  A book of which every page is a delight,
written with humour and sympathy, and a gentle satire,
none the less biting for its restraint.  In short, Mr. Lyons'
'Sixpenny Pieces' have the ring of true metal, and I for
one shall eagerly anticipate another issue from the same
excellent mint."—*Punch*.




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   COTTAGE PIE

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   A COUNTRY SPREAD

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   *Crown 8vo.  7s. net*

.. vspace:: 2

"Marked with the humour and grip with which Mr. Lyons
visualizes an episode, and by his remarkable power
of transcribing the talk of the less educated classes of the
community."—*Times*.

"We doubt if it would be easy to overpraise Mr. Neil
Lyons, for his humour is of the truest and most discreet
order.  A jollier, cheerfuller, more sympathetic book than
'Cottage Pie,' will be sought after in vain among the
successes of the season."—*Daily Telegraph*.




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   SIMPLE SIMON

.. class:: center large bold

   HIS ADVENTURES IN THE THISTLE PATCH

.. class:: center medium

   With 8 Illustrations by G. E. PETO

.. class:: center medium

   *Crown 8vo.  7s. net*

.. vspace:: 2

"I found myself the grateful admirer of Simon and his
creator.  Mr. Lyons' sympathetic drawing of certain odd
London characters is a thing that I have often admired;
he has no portraits in his gallery better than these, of the
quaint objects of Simon's Silverside hospitality
... specially did I like Margaret ... she and some others
are also depicted in some very attractive drawings which
illustrates (for once the right word) a book which will
certainly delight those who can appreciate it."—*Punch*.

"Those who come fresh to his work will find in it a
peculiar humour, irresistible, cynical...  They will also
find a power of satire and a true understanding of what
are known as the 'lower classes.'"—*Spectator*.




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   MOBY LANE & THEREABOUTS

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   *Crown 8vo.  7s. net*

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"Mr. Lyons proves himself an adept in the matter and
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Post*.

"There is, all through the book, a freshness of outlook
which is infectious, an incisive, humorous style, above all
a keen plunging into the middle of things."—*Spectator*.




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