The doctor's wonder grew. "What under heaven are you doing in the
purlieus of Mile End Road at two in the morning, then?" he demanded.
"Sir," I said, with grand simplicity, "you behold in me the
representative of an inexpensive but celebrated newspaper. I am come
here, by editorial instruction, to seek out Blossom, the chimney-sweep
philosopher, whose opinion on horse-racing we are anxious to secure for
our magazine page. But Blossom has evaporated. Mrs. Blossom vainly
seeketh him. So does the other woman's husband. I have prepared a full
and detailed report of this disgraceful scandal, which will appear,
together with photographs, on our sermon page next Sunday. And as, when
I communicated by telephone with my editor, he was so kind as to relieve
me from further intellectual activity for the day, and as I do not know
Mile End, and as I----"
"Never mind the 'ases,'" interpolated the doctor. "My name is Brink. I
like your politics."
"I have no politics," I explained. "But ... I hate my job."
"That is what I mean," replied the doctor. "... So you want me to send
this woman to the infirmary, where they will feed her well and keep her
warm between white sheets, and give her copies of the _Nineteenth
Century_ to read. But during that time, you see, her 'man' and some
other woman would be pawning her home. She knows this, and I know it.
So I took her home. If she has concussion, of course, she'll _have_ to
go; but short of that we can get her through it at home. There's a
boilerman's wife in the room above who has rudimentary graces.
Infirmary, forsooth! Why, even the respectable married ones would
rather pawn their wedding rings than 'lie in' on a public bed. A woman
at home is a woman at home, even though she talks through the mouth of a
midwife; but when a woman is in hospital William's wages and the marble
ornaments are both at William's mercy. And so the women stop at home
and call in Brink--Brink--the sixpenny doctor."