VTHE HYPOCRITESDuring 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.* * * * *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."ItwasBaffin'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£3 520-----£65 0A fairly obvious, if unconventional, piece of mathematical deduction. We were then faced with a new problem, somewhat more mysterious in its workings. Thus:—6598--13)163(12 Carry 313--3326--712----12/7----Total £1 12s. 7d.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 withrespectablepoverty."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."VICONATUSI 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 repastà deux, with epigrams, and incident, all in the most approved style of romance. Thetête-à-têteis 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!""ThisisScotch, 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'mturned 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; "youarea 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."VIION THE PROPERTIES OF WATER"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 doneyourbest. 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. 'WhatIthink 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 whatdraymenare. 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'anythinkto '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."Betterwithout it?" echoed the visitor. "Without beer? A drayman? Workin' ten an' twelve hours on the stretch? Youlivewith '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: "Ikeep 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."VIIITHE WAY OF THE EASTWe 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."Ishouldlike 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 everIsee.""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:entirelydressed. 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 typicalmise 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.IXTHE 'POTHECARYThe 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. Iwillpass 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.
V
THE HYPOCRITES
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.
* * * * *
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."
ItwasBaffin'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
£3 520-----£65 0
A fairly obvious, if unconventional, piece of mathematical deduction. We were then faced with a new problem, somewhat more mysterious in its workings. Thus:—
6598--13)163(12 Carry 313--3326--712----12/7----Total £1 12s. 7d.
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 withrespectablepoverty."
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."
VI
CONATUS
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 repastà deux, with epigrams, and incident, all in the most approved style of romance. Thetête-à-têteis 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!"
"ThisisScotch, 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'mturned 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; "youarea 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."
VII
ON THE PROPERTIES OF WATER
"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 doneyourbest. 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. 'WhatIthink 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 whatdraymenare. 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'anythinkto '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.
"Betterwithout it?" echoed the visitor. "Without beer? A drayman? Workin' ten an' twelve hours on the stretch? Youlivewith '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: "Ikeep 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."
VIII
THE WAY OF THE EAST
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.
"Ishouldlike 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 everIsee."
"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:entirelydressed. 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 typicalmise 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.
IX
THE 'POTHECARY
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. Iwillpass 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.