The stars were shining.
The beautiful moon looked beautifully forth from her beautiful throne.
A nightingale greeted her with a beautiful sonnet. England--our
England--bore upon her bosom the beautiful perfume of woodruff and the
wild clover. In Bovingdon Street, London, E., a lover was kicking his
sweetheart.
That was the beginning of this book. I happened to be standing at Mr.
Wilson's coffee stall. And I heard the screaming. And I saw some
shadows moving briskly, like the funny silhouettes on the blind at a
pantomime. And some of us laughed and some of us whined and one of us
blew a whistle. And the constabulary arrived, and with their coming the
tumult died. And they brought the girl to the light of the stall, and
her face was bruised and swollen and she lost her voice. But before
doing so she was able to assure us that "'E done it in drink." "'E" was
removed under escort.
They did not take her to a hospital, because there was a round little
man at the stall who prevented them from doing so. "Lemme alone," the
lady had remarked, upon regaining speech. "Don't you worry me. I'm all
right, I am. I got my doctor 'ere: this genelman in the top 'at. Ain't
that right, sir? You are my doctor, ain't you?"
"That is so," said the round little man, "I'm her doctor. Shift your
dam carcases and give the woman some air."
"There you are," gasped the woman, "what did I tell you? He _is_ my
doctor. I got 'is confinement card in me pocket this minute."
"She can't stop 'ere you know, Dr. Brink," expostulated a constable.
"I'll take her home," said the round man.
"Be a lot better in the 'orspital," muttered the constable.
"I'm obliged for your opinion, officer; but I think I'll have my own way
_this_ time. Catch hold of her middle, will you, Sonny?"
It was your servant who had the honour to be addressed as Sonny, and he
hastened to do the little round man's bidding. When we had got the lady
into a perpendicular attitude, the doctor put his arm about her, and,
anticipating the little man's commands, your servant did the same. And
so we led her from the stall, all the cut-throats of Bovingdon Street
following reverently behind us. Happily our march was not a long one,
for the patient lived in Smith Street; and Smith Street, as everybody
knows, is the second turning past the African Chief beer-house in
Bovingdon Street. Short as the journey was, however, I could have
wished it to be shorter: for the cut-throats pressed us close, breathing
thickly about our ears; and the woman weighed heavy, having no manner of
use for her legs and being stupid in the head. She only spoke once
during the walk, and that was to say, in a drowsy sort of monotone: "'E
done it--in drink."
We came at last to 13, Smith Street, and the fact that eighteen eager
faces were already distributed among the six small windows of that
dwelling-house removed my latent fears that our arrival would disturb
"the neighbours." The owners of these faces were entirely mute, save
for one, an elderly woman, who, in a loud wail, made certain
representations to Providence in regard to one 'Erry Barber, whom I
understood to be the lusty gallant primarily responsible for this
adventure. Having repeated these commands a great number of times, and
having exercised undoubted talent in describing 'Erry and 'Erry's
parentage, the old woman proceeded to chronicle her views respecting a
vast number of alien subjects. At last this lady had the great
misfortune to "catch her breath," at which the doctor cut in.
"Stop that beastly noise!" he shouted, "and shut the window, and put on
a respectable garment, and come downstairs and let us in."
The lady looked benignly down upon us.
"Go' bless ye, doctor," she exclaimed, "you are a good man. But you
didn't ought to talk like that to _me_. I lorst a son in the Bower
war."
At that moment the door was opened by some other dweller in the house.
And the doctor and his patient entered in. Not knowing the
neighbourhood and not liking it, and being also of a curious nature, I
awaited the doctor's return. I had not long to wait. He came out very
soon, and we walked away together into clearer air. And the doctor
spoke.
"It is a deuced queer thing," he said, "that a man can't stop for five
minutes at a dam coffee stall without some fool or other finding work
for him. I'll never go to that stall again. I'll be damned if I will.
I ought to have got home half an hour ago."
"Yes," I said--I believe that vaguely I sought to comfort him--"and she
_would_ have been better off in the infirmary?"
"Don't talk foolishness, young man," replied the round little doctor.
"You are talking dam nonsense. Infirmary--pooh! With a baby almost
due, and with all those bruises! They would have made a complete job of
it there. They would have kept her there for the lying-in and all--a
six weeks' job at least."
"And would that matter?"
"Matter? Of course it would. That man will be out in a week, even if
our local humorist doesn't let him off with a fine. What's to become of
that poor girl's home, do you suppose, while she's in and he's out?"
"Would he touch it?"
"Do you live in this neighbourhood, sir?" The doctor wore a visage as
of painful wonder.