* * * * *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' roundourplace 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. "Wecan't manage Prudence, but Mrs. Vesey can.She'llfix 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 donenow? Sent along acradleto 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 atour'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, Iamlate, 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' alittlelonger," 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."XXXVIA BIRTHDAY PARTYI 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."Whathashe 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. 'Eain'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. "'Eain'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!Thatdon'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."Howdidthat 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!"XXXVIITHE MORAL SENSE"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 abigham, 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, shedidenjoy 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'asseemed 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.Somethingmust '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.XXXVIIILOVE AND HATEThe 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 giveyourselves. 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 anybodycouldfeel angry with the poor dear things. For my part," she added, arranging her furs, "I love them. They are so unfortunate!"XXXIXON A DEAD POLICEMANA 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, "Allright!" 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! HereisGeorge."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'syou," 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 onme. 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'llwait 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 partingmot. Said George—"He liked his little drop, Doctor—what?"XLMRS. GLUCKSTEINIt 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 tohisfringe.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, "Itoldyou 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 placegreatfaith 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 dergooddings vat brings yer in der brufit. You notice dat inyourbusiness—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 pushedthisstatement 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 duckterfoirst,' he seth."
* * * * *
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' roundourplace 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. "Wecan't manage Prudence, but Mrs. Vesey can.She'llfix 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 donenow? Sent along acradleto 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 atour'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, Iamlate, 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' alittlelonger," 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."
XXXVI
A BIRTHDAY PARTY
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.
"Whathashe 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. 'Eain'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. "'Eain'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!Thatdon'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.
"Howdidthat 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!"
XXXVII
THE MORAL SENSE
"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 abigham, 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, shedidenjoy 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'asseemed 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.Somethingmust '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.
XXXVIII
LOVE AND HATE
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 giveyourselves. 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 anybodycouldfeel angry with the poor dear things. For my part," she added, arranging her furs, "I love them. They are so unfortunate!"
XXXIX
ON A DEAD POLICEMAN
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, "Allright!" 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! HereisGeorge."
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'syou," 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 onme. 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'llwait 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 partingmot. Said George—
"He liked his little drop, Doctor—what?"
XL
MRS. GLUCKSTEIN
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 tohisfringe.
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, "Itoldyou 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 placegreatfaith 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 dergooddings vat brings yer in der brufit. You notice dat inyourbusiness—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 pushedthisstatement 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 duckterfoirst,' he seth."