"That's another trade expression. It stands for 'Born Before Arrival,'
and it's what you always pray for, because it saves a lot of time, and
they have to pay you just the same. Our fee is half a guinea, and you
can pay it by instalments if you like. But if it is your first baby we
charge a guinea, because your husband is a lot more trouble to us, and
he is not always sober. And whatever the fee, we do our very best for
you, and pride ourselves on our results; but as we get about seven
'midders' every day, we are not able to make so many compliments as we
did in Norfolk.... Fatty calls it his Automatic Delivery System."
The girl, as she spoke, looked very "nice" and English: she was feeding
Sunshine from a fork. I began to wonder whether it was actually
possible that she did not realise the horrible impropriety of her
conversation. As an Englishman, I knew my duty. That duty was to
represent to her in suitable terms that her conduct was abandoned and
impure. But the religious duty of causing maidens to blush is one which
is best performed by the Righteous, who perform it so well and often....
I concealed my horror.
And the maiden prattled on. "Some of them are fearfully grateful. Do
you see that old stuffed owl in the dusty case, there? That's a
present--to me. It only came yesterday, and it's a token of gratitude
from a Jewish lady in the fish trade. This is her sixth, and the first
five were all girls. She used to deal with our opposition--Dr.
McWhite--but when the fifth female came along they changed over to
Fatty, and this stuffed owl is what he calls a tribute to professional
ability. And there's Fatty's key in the door. Seize his bacon, will
you--it's in the fender."
I was rather annoyed with Dr. Brink for returning just then. I had
mapped out a series of leading questions designed to elicit James's age
and identity.
But when the little hungry man came in, I felt that these questions were
unimportant and could wait. It was interesting enough to help that busy
scientist to mustard, and to hear him curse the Liberal Government with
his mouth full of bacon, and to watch the quiet motherliness of James.
"Regular multitude in the waiting-room," announced the doctor, as he
gulped his coffee. "Got to get back there quick. You'd better pop down
with me, youngster, and get a squint at it all."
"You sit on the gas-stove in the kitchen," explained James. "There's a
window just above it which gives on to the consulting-room, and it's
painted on the kitchen side, and I've scratched a little squint-hole in
the paint.... I often go down there when the drunks come in--the
_funny_ drunks, I mean. Sometimes they are not funny. And Mr. Boag, the
Conative Meliorist, sits there by the hour. He calls it 'supping with
misery.'"
"You'll spend the day with us, I suppose?" suggested the little doctor.
And, as it was Saturday, and therefore a holiday in my trade, I supposed
that I would.
And then they introduced me to the gas-stove.
*IV*
*SIXPENCES*
I sat on the gas-stove, with James beside me, and we applied our eyes in
turn to the squint-hole and beheld the Doctor earning sixpences.
_Item:_ A young gentleman with the hiccoughs. Was feeling suicidal.
How was his appetite? Shocking, shocking! Digestion in good order? On
the contrary, it was shocking bad. What sort of nights? Shocking!
Spirits low? Shocking low. Did his head ache? Shockingly. Food taste
dull? Absolutely shocking. Young gentleman receives some advice on the
subject of alcoholic excess and a bottle of water, fortified by harmless
colouring matter. Young gentleman departs.
_Item:_ Tired woman with baby in convulsions. Baby's dietary discussed.
Woman indignant. "Why," she declares, "'e 'as the very same as us!"
Baby dismissed with a powder.
_Item:_ Slow-spoken man with a jellied thumb. "Door jamb," he explains.
"Want a stifficut. Works at the Brewery. Want another stifficut for
the Insurance. 'Urry up. 'Ow much? Good-day."
Then an old woman came in--a very old woman, with rosy cheeks and a
clean apron, and querulous, childish eyes.
"I want some morphium," she says, "to soothe meself down. Not that I
got a right to look for much--at my age."
The doctor became jocular. "What!" he cried. "A fine woman like you?
Morphia for you? What? With those cheeks? _What?_"
"I ain't got no happetite," said the old woman. "And there's shooting
pains in me 'ead, and I don't sleep proper, and I seems to feel
lonesome, and I wants some morphium to soothe meself down with."
"What's your favourite dinner dish?" inquired our inconsequent wag of a
doctor.
"I ain't got no favourites," replied the woman. "I'm old, I am; what
should I do with favourites at my age? I want some morphium to soothe
meself down."
"What _is_ your age--sixty?"
"I shall never see sixty again," said the woman. "Nor I shan't see
seventy. Nor eighty. I'm old."
"And you mean to tell me," cried the doctor, with sudden heat, "that you
do not care for tripe? Good tripe, mind you--tender tripe, very well
boiled, with just a flavouring of onions?"
"And if I did," protested the woman, "who's to cook it for me? There's
so many young women to get the favours now I find, and me so old. Can't
I have a little morphium, Doctor: the brown mixture, ye know? To soothe
meself down with."
"The young ones get the favouring, eh? Do you live with a young woman?"
"I lives with two on 'em--worse luck."
"Daughters?"
"Daughters? Me? No, sir. I'm a maiden, I am.... It's me landlady
what I lives with."
"Doesn't she cook for you? I've got some tripe in the kitchen, and I
thought--but, of course, if it can't be cooked, why---- What's all this
about?"
The rosy-cheeked old maiden was crying, "I'm too old," she sobbed; "it's
the young ones gets the favouring."
"Oh," said the doctor, "and so your landlady is unkind?"
"Not unkind, sir," said the woman, gently swallowing the doctor's bait;
"she's a good woman, as they go, only I'm growed so old, and a young
woman has come into our house, and I'm sorry to say, doctor, as she has
'leniated my landlady away from me. She is a young woman."
"Can't you get some other lodgings?" suggested the doctor. "You oughtn
t to be neglected."
"I do not say I ham neglected, Doctor. That would be huntrue. I am not
blaming anybody. I honly say I'm old. And this new lodger she's
'leniated my landlady away from me. She's young, you see. Well under
seventy, she is."
They're all alike, these minxes," said the doctor, with a wistful smile.
"I got nothing to say agin her, mind you," protested the old woman.
"Not agin neether. My landlady, she was very good and kind to me at one
time; but now this young one 'ave come, and I ham sorry to say as she
'ave 'leniated my landlady away from me."
"I shouldn't fret about the matter, anyhow," suggested Dr. Brink.
"You'll make friends with your landlady soon again; I'm sure you will."
"We was never bad friends," explained the woman. "We're friends to-day,
on'y not _sich_ friends, if you understand me. This new lodger, you
see, she has 'leniated my landlady away from me. That's what it is. She
'ave leniated her. She's a _young_ woman, you see! ... Will you give me
some morphium, Doctor; just to soothe meself down with?"
The maiden got her morphia.
The maiden was succeeded by another woman--a mother. She carried a
bundle, partly occupied by a baby. She was a lewd and dirty woman, and
engaged my friend in the following dialogue.
FEMALE: I warra soothin' surrup for my baby yere. 'E's fidgety.
DOCTOR: How fidgety?
FEMALE: Well: look at the little blighter. 'E's got the blasted jumps.
DOCTOR: Of course he's got the jumps. He's dying.
FEMALE: Warra mean--dyin'?
DOCTOR: I mean that he will soon be dead.
FEMALE: Whaffor?
DOCTOR: Because he's starving.
FEMALE: Warra mean--starving?
DOCTOR: I mean that he is squirming mad from hunger. Breast fed, of
course?
FEMALE: Warra mean, ye bleatin' image?
DOCTOR: Breast fed, of course?
FEMALE: Ye bleatin' image! 'Oo the 'ell you think _you_ are?
DOCTOR: Breast fed, of course?
FEMALE (_weeping wildly_): Me starve my baby? Ow, ow, ow, ow!
DOCTOR: Breast fed, of course?
FEMALE: Ow, ow--why cert'nly 'e's breast fed! 'Ow else d'ye think a
pore workin' woman's goin' ter manage? And 'im not five months old.
And one of yere own deliveries. Cert'nly e's breast fed.
DOCTOR: That's the trouble, you see. No baby can be nourished on gin
and stout. He's starving, I tell you.
FEMALE: And I tell ye it's a dirty lie. I'm for ever feedin' 'im. 'E's
for ever worryin'. Sich a happetite this little beggar's got. Warra
mean, me starve 'im? Warra mean, yere gin and beer? I suckle the little
dear meself.
DOCTOR: And what do you feed yourself on?
FEMALE: That's my business, ain't it?
DOCTOR: It's my business, too. If you want that baby to live, you'd
best look sharp and feed him. Get sober. I can't cure the baby. The
only person who can cure him is yourself. And to do that you must leave
off getting drunk. You must eat some decent food. You're living on
alcohol at present. No baby can be nourished on gin and stout.
FEMALE: S'elp me Gawd, Doctor--s'elp me Gawd, young man, if I die this
minute--s'elp me Gawd I ain't 'ad only two 'arf-pints since yisterday.
I take them a-purpose for the boy's own sake, young man. 'E don't seem
to fancy it, some'ow, unless I 'as me drop o' stout. See what I mean,
Doctor? I takes what I do for the baby's own sake: 'e _will_ 'ave it,
bless 'is little 'eart.
*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."
It _was_ Baffin's bag, and it assisted your servant in the performance
of a complicated somersault. Baffin had left it on his doorstep.
Baffin's doorstep led into quite the wildest washhouse which I have ever
viewed. Baffin's bed, consisting of three brown blankets strewn oddly
upon a damaged ottoman, occupied most of the foreground, and behind this
object lay, in some confusion, waistcoats, and easels, and broken
chairs, and bas-reliefs, and unclean collars, and portfolios, and
fencing sticks, and a rusty helm and vizor out of Wardour Street. And
the walls were covered with crayon drawings and printed posters, all of
them attached to the plaster by means of one corner and a pin, and all
of them being curled at the edges and tanned with exposure. It was
noticeable, also, that a bust of the Blessed Virgin, after Cinquevalli,
was situated within the font or cavity of the copper. We removed this
object in order to make room for the beer.
I observed also that Mr. Baffin's studio was beautified by one mural
design of a permanent nature. This consisted of a sum in compound
arithmetic, performed by means of charcoal. I studied this inscription
with interest. There was
L3 5
20
-----
L65 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:--
65
98
--
13)163(12 Carry 3
13
--
33
26
--
7
12
----
12/7
----
Total L1 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--L1 12s. 7d. worth, more
or less. A fellow-feeling made me fear it must be less. There was a
hurried, insignificant, shamefaced look about the figures wherewith
Baffin had recorded his results. They indubitably pointed to a debit
balance.
Presently Mr. Baffin himself strolled in, and we were presented to each
other, and he helped us boil the beer. He helped us in intention rather
than effect, for Mr. Baffin possessed a thoughtful, halting,
introspective mind, and, as Dr. Brink had observed, he did not put
things where they could be found again. Also, he was rather wrapped up
in me. "I say, you know," he had observed, "I wish you would sit for
me. You would make a splendid model for my oyster seller. I am doing
the New Cut by night, you know."
"Are you in love?" demanded Mr. Baffin, a little later. I said, "Of
course." "Will you bring her round, then?" continued Mr. Baffin. "And
to what end?" I said. "I am collecting lovers," explained this talented
and candid youth. "I want that rapt look. Paid models are no use at
all, you know. Amateurs aren't much better, of course, because they all
have prejudices against yearning in public. But I am hoping to find the
exception in time, and you have a natural sort of
expression--rather--and so I thought--I give you tea, you know, and
drinks when there are any. All you have to do is to sit on the throne
and embrace. I hope she's dark. Next Tuesday would be a good day."
I promised Mr. Baffin that I would submit his proposition to all the
ladies with whom I happened to be in love.
And then the liquid in the copper arrived at a perfect temperature and
we became all silent in the pursuit of brewing. And James came in to
help us, observing that the attractions of brewing transcended those of
her aunt at Ealing, and that she had postponed her visit to that
respectable lady. And some of the doctor's friends looked in, including
Mr. Pudsey, the lyric poet, and Boag (conative meliorist), who invited
me to dine with him, and Jenny Brown, the painter, and Miss Blick, of
the Women's Social and Political Union, and Mr. Webb, the local curate,
who explained to me, with an air of bold originality, that Christianity
and Socialism had points in common. And we partook of tea from Breton
mugs, and were secretly amused at each other. And in the midst of it
all a gas engine arrived at the surgery door, and said "Honk! Honk!"
And the doctor rushed out and came back looking sad.
"It is Lady Budge, the new member's wife," he said with dolour; "and she
has come in her motor to discuss the poor. James, old girl, I am awfully
sorry, but you have got to be respectable. Her ladyship is waiting
upstairs now."
A period of wild excitement followed, while we all helped James to comb
her hair and climb into the speckled pinafore of a blameless life. "I
will do my best," said James; "but I am sure I shall forget and call you
'Fatty.' Is it father or papa to-day?"
"Her ladyship," responded the doctor, "is, I think, the kind of ladyship
who would prefer papa. Let her do all the good she wants to. Mention
that we've got a curate here. Webb and I will come up in a little while
and collect the cheque. Don't harrow her. She's the kind of ladyship
who likes to do business with _respectable_ poverty."
When, a little later, we went upstairs, James was sedately sipping more
tea from a cup. And her ladyship was talking, and James was viewing her
with eyes of innocence and wonder. "I quite agree with you," said
James, "that alpaca is the most sensible thing for people of that
class."
Baffin was dragged in, and the doctor loudly proclaimed him as being of
the Leicestershire Baffins, and her ladyship suddenly looked interested
and human.
"You are an artist?" she said. "How very charming!"
Baffin, who had done very well up to then, became suddenly ponderful
again. "I say," he blurted forth, at last, "couldn't I persuade you to
sit for me some time? You are the very thing I have been looking out
for. For my angel's back, you know."
*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 repast _a deux_, with epigrams, and incident, all in the
most approved style of romance. The _tete-a-tete_ is consecrated to
literature by a thousand charming precedents. I shall certainly offer
no apology for submitting this one to your indulgent consideration.
They were dining off alabaster--or was it granite?--at the foot of
Cleopatra's Needle; and I remarked particularly the singular blueness of
Strephon's fingers. The glorious revelation, recently vouchsafed to me,
of Conative truths, had so warmed my heart, had set up such a tingling
within my veins (which were themselves protected from chill by several
layers of wool and cambric) that the few degrees of frost prevailing at
the moment had not yet become evident to my senses. Strephon, of
course, was in another case, being appropriately clad in garments
partaking of the nature of gossamer. And he, besides, had not been
privileged to receive the truths of Meliorism. Wherefore, he must blow
upon his nail, and pinch his scrubby cheek, and utter blasphemies,
crying, "Christ, mate, but this wind ain't 'arf a nipper."
And she (the Chloee of this story: the one whom he addressed as "mate")
made answer thus: "Then do as I tell you, an' drink that up!"
"But 'ere, 'old 'ard!" cried Strephon, as she poked a little bottle at
his lips--"that's your share, ain't it?"
"Not be rights," said the woman, blushing a little--or seeming to blush;
for she was a battered, sodden thing, and her cheek had lost its
quickness. "It ain't my share, be rights. I--I 'ad a sip at yourn.
Besides, I've lorst me liking fur that Irish stuff. Give me Scotch!"
"This _is_ Scotch, ain't it?" said the man.
"It is, bad luck to it," replied the woman quickly. "I've lost me
likin' fur it, I tell you. Give me Irish!"
"Oh!" said the man, and he swallowed her share.
He pocketed the empty bottle with a little shiver of contentment. The
woman shivered also, and plucked at an imaginary shawl. "Now then, boy,"
she cried, with sudden cheerfulness; "wake up, you ain't 'arf a eater.
Why don't ye punch into that other 'am bone."
"So I shall," responded Boy, with a full mouth, "when I done this."
"Righto, dearie," said the woman quietly, with a sideways look at the
ham bone and another little shiver. Then she drew closer to her
companion and looked at him silently, with pity in her awful eyes.
"It's a funny thing about you," she said at last; "you to be on the
rocks at your age--a boy like you!"
"I'm rather independent in me nature," explained the "Boy." "I've stood
fur me rights and suffered by it. 'Ad some good jobs in me time. 'Ad
some money too. I was a bit lucky over cards. Retired for a year an'
done it in. Ain't 'ad no luck since."
"Funny, ain't it," said the woman, still with that strange softness in
her shameful eyes. "Funny, ain't it," she repeated: "a boy like you."
"Not so much o' yere 'Boy,'" protested Strephon; "I'm twenty-four."
"Ha!" cried the woman, crouching closer, "what price yere 'umble then?
_I'm_ turned forty-four."
Strephon looked lazily at her, munching his ham bone steadily. She made
a queer figure, strange to see beside that world-old monument, with her
swollen, bloodless face, and button nose, and greedy eyes, and ravelled,
rusty hair, the colour of an old dog-fox's pelt. And that which was
upon her head, a time-worn sailor-hat, set at a ridiculous angle,
increased the queerness of her. "What price yere 'umble?" she cried
again, with a shrill little creak of laughter; "turned forty-four, I
am."
"Yus," said Strephon simply, "and you look it!"
He continued to munch at his ham bone, and she continued to leer at him,
showing neither anger nor surprise. But the flat smile on her face grew
gradually flatter, and again she shivered, plucking at the shawl which
was not there.
Suddenly the man looked up from his ham bone and spoke to her. "'Ow
much did 'e give you for it?" said he.
The woman uttered a sequence of scalding oaths.
"The stingy swine," cried she, "'e give me a tanner; that's what 'e give
me--a lousy tanner. See if I don't jolly well pop back there and 'ave a
shawl's worf out of 'is stinkin' till--the stingy Jew."
"What!" said the man, evincing a sort of interest. "Are you in that
line, then? Tills and ceterer?"
"I'm in any blessed line, I am," said the woman, "s' long as there's the
price of a fag in it. Never 'eard o' Nottingham Kate, I suppose?
That's me. I was well known in me time. 'Twas I what done that
drugging affair at Weedon, when we put them orficers through it. They
made a lot of that job at the time. I done five year for that."
"Well," commented Strephon, still gnawing patiently at his bone, "it
ain't much to yere credit. I'm on the straight ticket meself. Per'aps
if I'd knowed the sort of character you--but there: you ain't so bad as
some on 'em. Harlot, or thief, or what not, you've treated me quite
fair.... Gurrr! ... Christ, but it's cold!"
"Chronic!" said the woman, pressing her senseless fingers to her neck,
in the way which women have.
"That 'am," reflected Strephon, "just sooted me all right. Wish I 'ad a
fag now."
Without a word, the woman struggled to her feet, and descended the steps
of the pedestal, half walking, half crawling, like a child. She peered
into the darkness, and must have beheld a figure there; for she at once
came forward, with stiff, uncertain steps, and having spoken to him,
returned to her pedestal the possessor of all his cigarettes.
"Strike me now," cried Strephon, beholding her treasure with incredulous
eyes; "you _are_ a deep one. You don't 'arf know the ropes. Take one
yerself, won't ye?"
Chloee 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 done _your_ best. Though 'ow you made seven visits of it when the
child was on'y ill five days is a thing I never could--but, there, let
bygones be bygones. About this water now. You think that water's a
safe sort of thing for anybody to drink, Doctor?"
"It's--ahem--it's a--er--a natural sort of drink, you know," suggested
the doctor.
"Why, cert'nly, Doctor," admitted Mrs. Skelp. "On'y ... Well, so far as
that goes, you could say the same of milk."
"You could," assented Dr. Brink.
"And yet," pursued his patient, "it is well known to all of us what milk
will do for the system. Look 'ow it puffs you out. Look at that baby
of mine, the pore little thing what died. You did your best, Doctor, we
all know, but we've often thought since as milk was at the bottom of it.
It doesn't do for the likes of us to set ourselves up against the
doctor, but you'll remember yerself that I had my suspicions about you
ordering so much milk. 'What _I_ think she wants,' I said, is one of
your biggest bottles of good dark red, and---- But there, let bygones
be bygones. What I really come 'ere for is about this water question.
I says to mine last night, I says--'e's a drayman, you know, Doctor.'"
The Doctor nodded.
"Well," suggested Mrs. Skelp, "you know what _draymen_ are. Water's no
drink for a drayman, Doctor."
"I--I suppose not," ventured the doctor.
"And mine, 'e's a 'eavy, full-bodied build o' man. And so I says to
'im--but what's the good o' sayin' _anythink_ to 'im. The long and the
short o' it is, Doctor, as 'e's took to the water 'abit.
"I meantosay," continued Mrs. Skelp, having marked the doctor's grin, "I
meantosay as 'e's sworn off 'is licker.
"'E's a great reader is mine, you see. 'E sets up in bed for hours o' a
Sunday morning and gets through as much as three-pennyworth o' papers at
a setting. Not that I 'olds with so much readin', mind you. 'Moody boys
an' readin' gals,' we used to say--well, you know the rest, Doctor.
It's a thankless 'abit.
"But, at the same time, mind you, I believe in the notion that Sunday is
a day of rest. A man's 'ouse is 'is own of a Sunday, I always say. And
so I ain't never raised no objections to mine amusin' 'isself; and I
can't say that no 'arm 'as ever come of my good nature. Not till now.
But now we see the fruits of it.
"You see, Doctor, 'e's bin reading up the subject o' his vitals. And
the long and short of it is as 'e's took to what 'e calls 'is nature
treatment. Not a tea-cup full o' beer will 'e 'ave inside the 'ouse,
Doctor. Not a spoonful. It's water--water, always water. That an'
cocoa. Fancy a drayman drinking cocoa, Doctor!"
"Cocoa is a very wholesome drink," asserted the doctor.
"For supper--yes," assented Mrs. Skelp. "I agree with you there, Doctor.
But 'ooever 'eard of cocoa for breakfast and water for dinner and water
for tea? And not a drop of beer from one week's end to the other?
Fancy a drayman without 'is beer, Doctor!"
"He is probably much better without it," suggested Dr. Brink.
"_Better_ without it?" echoed the visitor. "Without beer? A drayman?
Workin' ten an' twelve hours on the stretch? You _live_ with 'im,
Doctor, and see if 'e's better without it ... Not that I wish you no
'arm."
"And what," said the doctor, looking earnestly at his watch,
"and--er--what----"
"Well, Doctor," interpolated Mrs. Skelp, "I really come to see if you
could give me a stifficut. We must do something-."
"A certificate of what?" demanded the doctor.
"To say 'e needs it--fur the good o' 'is 'ealth, you know. We can never
go on like this. A little stifficut, Doctor, to say 'e needs it."
"Needs what?" exclaimed the doctor, yawning wearily.
"The beer," responded Mrs. Skelp. "This water will be the ruin of 'im,
Doctor, and me, too. 'E gets so down'earted, Doctor, so solemn-minded,
so short-spoken."
"I have already told you, Mrs. Skelp"--the Doctor put on his heaviest
consulting-room manner--"I have already told you that your husband is
probably better off without the beer. How, then, can you expect
me--especially since I haven't seen him--to give you the certificate
which you ask for? And what difference would it make if I did?"
"'E wouldn't go against the doctor's orders, sir. Skelp is not that
sort of man. 'E knows 'is place, sir. I on'y got to show him a brief
from you, Doctor, to say that what he wants is so many pints to nourish
'is system, and there would be a end to all this nonsense. A drayman
must 'ave beer, Doctor."
"A drayman must have nothing of the sort, Mrs. Skelp. What a drayman
must have is plenty of rump steak and jam roll and a quiet life and a
jolly time. Why do you want him to have this beer? Are you any better
off when he does have it? The more he spends on beer the less there is
for the home, you know."
"Mine ain't that sort," asserted Mrs. Skelp, with a touch of asperity in
her tone: "_I_ keep Skelp's money. What he wants--is beer. The man's
got that down-'earted 'e isn't fit to live with. A drayman must 'ave
beer."
Dr. Brink inspected his watch again. "Well, Mrs. Skelp," he said,
"you've had more than your share of my time. Send him round to-morrow
evening, and I'll tell you what I think about it. Good-night."
"My own idea, Doctor," said Mrs. Skelp, as she made her exit, "is a pint
an' a 'arf--let us say two pints--of stout and bitter. But I leave the
particklers to you, sir."
When she had really gone the doctor saw some other patients--droves of
them. And the last of the drove was a large red man, who had called in
to discuss his "constitootion."
"It's run down, Doctor," he explained. "That's what it is. Me
constitootion is run down. Whenever I draws a slow, long breath, it is
the same as if there was snakes and scorpions inside me. Very painful
it is."
"Then take a quick, short breath," suggested Dr. Brink.
The patient ignored this obvious response. He did not pay his sixpence
to be treated to the obvious. "Also," he continued, "it 'urts me when I
whistle."
"Then don't whistle," said the doctor.
"The long and the short of it is," pursued the patient, again ignoring
the voice of science, "that my constitootion is thoroughly run down....
I ... I was wondering, Doctor.... Can you tell me if water is a safe
thing for anybody to drink?"
The Doctor started. "Water is Nature's beverage," he observed.
"But don't you think, Doctor," suggested the invalid, "that when a man
'as got 'is constitootion into a thoroughly onnatural state, the same as
what mine is, that a pint or so of onnatural licker----"
"Oh ... a pint or so ... yes," put in the doctor.
"I bin drinking a lot o' water lately," continued the patient. "I
thought I would give it a trial, Doctor, being Nature's beverage and
what not, and so highly spoke of in the papers. But I come to the
conclusion, Doctor, as it don't get on wiv my constitootion. I got a
very peculiar constitootion, Doctor, and it is very much run down.
Whenever I turn me eyes up, Doctor, a 'orrible sickly feeling comes over
me."
"Turn 'em down then," said the doctor.
"You don't approve of all this water, then?" inquired the patient. "You
think, per'aps, a pint or two of ale----"
"A pint or two of ale? Oh, certainly."
"Or stout, Doctor? Say stout and bitter. A couple o' pints o' stout and
bitter, Doctor; what? To brace up me constitootion like. What?"
"Stout and bitter," pronounced the doctor, "has, in certain
circumstances, a high tonic value."
"Thank you, Doctor. Would you be kind enough to put it in writin',
Doctor? I'm a family man, ye see, and seein' as I shall be takin' this
tonic for the good o' my constitootion, I thought per'aps--you see my
meanin', Doctor?"
"Quite," said the doctor, reaching out for a half-sheet of notepaper.
"Your name and address?"
"Skelp," responded the patient. "Samuel Skelp, of Peacock Street. My
missus is one o' your oldest customers."
*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.
"I _should_ like to 'ear the beggar cry, though," said Mr. Potter
wistfully, after a pause. He rubbed his chin on Joseph's head again.
The boy Fred stirred his saucepan. "Funny, ain't it," mused the
stevedore, "that the little chap don't 'oller?" But as he spoke, the
little chap responded. "That's done it," cried the stevedore, and
rubbed his chin on Joseph's head.
And then I clearly heard the voice of auntie. "That young man what's
with you, Doctor, is 'e a doctor, too?"
"Not exactly a doctor," responded Brink; "but he knows quite as much
about medicine as any doctor."
"Because," pursued auntie, "the young man might like to step in and see
this baby. It's the biggest baby ever _I_ see."
"So it is," assented the doctor. "So he would."
He thought, God help him, that it would please me to see inside that
room.
And so he called to me, and I stepped forward and found myself in front
of a reality. You know the thing, of course: a poor, white woman in a
poor, white bed. And---- But need I describe it? You know it all,
don't you?
You do not know it.
I know it--now. I know what is the way of the East. I will tell you
what I saw.
I saw a bare brown mattress, and on it lay a moaning woman, fully
dressed: _entirely_ dressed. And at her head there lay the new-born
babe, and at the baby's head another child--a child of six. And when I
entered in this child made speech. "Auntie's gointer dress him soon,"
he said.
"This, my pure young friend," said Doctor Brink, "is a typical _mise en
scene_. 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. I _will_ pass my final, sir. I
must."
And Mr. Gilkes would sight a sail and watch it eagerly with a little
fluttering smile.
He always dressed himself in shabby black. This emphasised his stature
and the exceeding leanness of him. It also served to disguise the
unnatural colour of his linen, He did not smoke, and they naturally say
that he drank. But I never saw him drunk. He would sometimes look out
upon his ship with the gaze of one who is intoxicated with the splendour
of his visions. But this is not the same as being drunk.
Wilfered, his successor in the post of 'Pothecary (for you will
understand that Mr. Gilkes became impossible), has placed on record that
"Gilkes fair give you the 'errors, a-talkin' to 'isself the livelong day
and strokin' the bottles and seein' snakes." But Wilfered is young and
strenuous, and efficient. His heart is in his work. He adds the water
to the sugar with extreme exactitude, and, not being versed in the
language of pharmacy, he is convinced that not merely the reputation of
Dr. Brink, but the very lives of all his patients are bound up in the
exact and scrupulous decoction of the liquids committed to his care.
But he does not interest himself in distant ships.
For myself, I am sorry that Mr. Gilkes became impossible. I like dumb
animals.
I shall always remember the evening when, coming unexpectedly to the
house, I saw him sitting by a window with the light from the setting sun
upon his face and shabby coat. He was talking to James. And James has
the knack of making people talk much.
"He writes, does he?" said the 'Pothecary. (I think that the question
must have applied to your servant.) "He would. Of course he would.
Quite naturally. Just so. Of course. Some people can write. They have
the trick. Some people can do anything. Anything. I must pass my
final. They thought I was going to be a writer myself once. To write
poetry, I suppose. 'He's half a poet,' they use to say, 'half a poet.'
"But I wasn't worth the compliment. I couldn't find the rhymes, you
know. I could see it all--sometimes, you know; but I couldn't find the
rhymes. Once I nearly reached it, but only once--only nearly. You see,
I--I haven't even passed my final. Not yet. But I will. I must. I
nearly did it last time--nearly. Nearly."
His voice dropped low; so low that you could hardly hear it. And he
looked out to sea again; but not with gladness. I think he saw some
sort of hulk or derelict.
*X*
*THE MOTHER'S TRADE UNION*
"My motter," said 'Ost 'Uggins decisively, "is 'Live an' let live.' We
won't deny but what the young woman 'as acted wrongful. She 'as broke an
important commandment, as we all know, besides puttin' my 'ole
establishment to expense and inconvenience. Besides upsettin' my good
lady. Besides disgracin' 'er fambily.
"But at the same time I can't forget that my mother's father was 'isself
a fondling. And we live in a Keristian age. And the one as is most to
blame is the _man_, 'ooever 'e may be, the ugly 'ound. What'll you
take, Doctor?"
"Ginger b----," began the doctor, having knowledge of the Mile End drink
traffic. But he checked himself, yielding, I suppose, to the reflection
that duty called for a more enthusiastic response to 'Ost 'Uggins's
hospitality.
"I will have a glass of--of whatever you drink yourself," said the
doctor.
'Ost 'Uggins favoured us with a heavy wink. His face and figure as he
stood there behind the marble counter of his "saloon compartment"
suggested coarseness and obesity and vulgarity and opulence and
ignorance, and--and manhood.
They used to say that pigs could fly,
Oh, aye, oh!
They used to say that pigs could fly
A hundred years ago.
It is certain that _this_ pig could fly. For "Live and let live" was
his motto. The pig is an animal which is held in unwarrantable disdain
by pious men.
Having concluded the wink, 'Ost 'Uggins inserted a ponderous hand into a
nook concealed by a framed portrait of himself--it represented Mr.
Huggins in the costume of an Arch Grand something or other of the
Ancient and Vociferous Order of Somebodies--and produced therefrom a
special, private, and particular bottle. This vessel, 'Ost 'Uggins was
at pains to make clear, contained "real licker." He did not pour its
precious golden drops into the muddy stream of commerce; but, on the
contrary, he kept them tightly corked, and in strict reserve for the
appreciative palates of his kindred and convives. "This is the real
thing," said Mr. Huggins; "no sale for it yere."
"'Ere's to your 'ealth, Doctor," pursued 'Ost 'Uggins, "and to this
young man's as well. And 'ere's wishin' that foolish young female well
over 'er whack o' trouble. What's the missus 'ad to say to you
_to-day_?"
"Same as before," replied the doctor. "She says the girl's a hussy. She
says she always knew it. She says you are pig-headed and obstinate, and
she _will_ be mistress in her own house, and why don't you put up a
notice saying, 'Beds for lying-in kept here,' and be done with it. And
if the girl had done her duty and attended to business and kept the
glasses washed instead of for ever gossiping with the Jew boys on the
saloon side, this thing would never have happened. And if girls are to
be petted and pampered for being bad, what is the use of having marriage
lines and living decent? She also intimates that your attitude in this
matter is not becoming to a married man. If she were a jealous woman
she _might_ begin to wonder if----"
Mr. Huggins smiled broadly. "My good lady, as the sayin' goes," quoth
he, "would talk the 'ind leg off a donkey. But we understand each
other, 'er and me, and ... we've buried three. I bin in this business
for forty year, man and boy. I know life. We understand each other,
Doctor. What? 'Ave another.
"'Live and let live' is _my_ motter. She bin with us three years, that
silly kid. She could go further with the eighteen gallons nor any young
woman as ever served in my bar. Where's she to go if my wife as 'er
way? And the kid? We buried three ourselves, which is a thing what you
might think would soften a woman's 'eart. But it don't, not in circs.
like this. These good women they _got_ no 'eart--not when it comes to
bad women. It's a sort of--a sort of----"
"Trade unionism," suggested Dr. Brink. And 'Ost 'Uggins, who at first
looked solemn and inquiring, gradually smiled his assent to Dr. Brink's
suggestion.
"I s'pose poor Phoebe _is_ a blackleg," he mused. "But my motter is
'Live and let live.' She was wonderful coaxing with the disorderlies.
What else my missus say to you?"
"She said you were looking for trouble."
"What else?"
"She said, 'Minx!' 'Damned devil!' 'Disgraceful slut!'"
"Anythink else?"
"She said that either the hussy or she would leave this house."
"And what did _you_ say, Doctor?"
"I said that the girl was not fit to be moved, and that SHE couldn't be
spared."
"And what did she say to that?"
"She said that we had made up a fine old tale between us, I and her old
man."
"Is that the lot?"
"That's the lot."
"Very well then," commented Mr. Huggins. "Do you know what I shall say
to it all, Doctor? I shall say: 'Tut, woman; tut!'"
"Meaning?" queried the doctor.
"Meaning?" echoed 'Ost 'Uggins, as he thumped his fist upon the counter,
not without menace to its marble surface, "meaning that I am a man of
few words: that I _will_ be master in me own 'ouse: that my motter is
'Live and let live.' That I won't see a pore girl drove to ruin not for
all the cantankerous whims of all the cantankerous wives in all----.
"Below there! 'Ush!" he added, with a sudden dropping of his voice.
"'Ere _is_ the missus!"
* * * * *
"Where you gointer, you George?" demanded the missus, as George prepared
to leave us.
"Goin' to find that fat-'eaded boy, my dear," responded George.
"There's a barrel wants tappin'."
"There's a lot more than barrels wants tappin' in this 'ouse," said
Mistress Huggins, with an air which was evidently intended to be
significant of much. "What you done with that gel?"
"Me, my dear?" responded the fist-strong Huggins. "Me? _I_ ain't moved
'er."
"Time you did, then. When's she gointer leave this 'ouse?"
'Ost 'Uggins gently but firmly retreated. "I bin discussin' it over with
the doctor, my dear," he explained, upon gaining the little glass door
which led into their private parlour. "'_E'll_ tell you all about it.
That's right, ain't it, Doctor? You'll tell 'er all about it. Don't
forget my motter, Doctor." And Mr. Huggins obliterated himself.
Mrs. Huggins, upon the contrary, and as it might be, intensified
herself. "Look here, Doctor What-its-name," she said, "I kin spot the
little game what is bein' played between the landlord an' you, same's if
I was partner. You are gettin' up a conspiracy. See? _I_ know it.
_I_ can't be fooled."
Mrs. Muggins was a mud-coloured woman, with a smouldering eye. She had
rings on every finger and more knuckles than rings.
"_I_ can't be fooled!" she repeated. "What you doin' with that gel?"
"Leaving her where she is," responded the doctor. "She really isn't fit
to be moved." He added this information in the tone of one imparting
confidences to a friend.
"Fit or not fit, do you suppose I'm gointer _let_ 'er stop there? A
low, ondecent 'ussy like what she is, to lie between my honest sheets!
Take the gel away, I tell you! Do you want to make trouble between a man
and 'is wife? Take the gel away!"
Dr. Brink assumed a highly authoritative tone. "It is my duty as a
doctor, madam," said he, "to warn you that the girl is not fit to be
moved. And your husband, who in law is the responsible head of this
house, agrees with me that----"
"Why ain't she fit to be moved? Answer me that?" rasped the woman.
"Because," said the doctor, as 'Ost 'Uggins's expressive features came
peeking round the doorpost, "because a poor girl of twenty who has just
given birth to----"
"Given birth!" shrieked the woman. _"Given birth_! And in my 'ouse!
"The disgraceful, shameless thing! And me to be kept in ignorance! And
now I think of it, I did seem to think or fancy as I heered a squallin'.
In _my_ 'ouse above all! May the Lord---- 'Ssh! What's that?"
"That," explained 'Ost 'Uggins, obtruding a further portion of his face,
"is the little bleater callin' for 'is vittles."
Mrs. Muggins's face grew strangely red, her lip grew strangely
tremulous. "It's a funny thing to me," she said, "to think as I wasn't
allowed to know.... 'Oo's with 'er?"
"Mrs. Tuck, from the cabyard," responded 'Ost 'Uggins, "'as laid the
fondling out an' that."
Mrs. Huggins stamped a foot. "You clumsy fool!" she cried. "What do we
want your Mrs. Tucks for? A drunken piece like she is! Ain't you got
enough to do in the bar without pokin' your nose into a woman's business
like what this is?
"And me the last to 'ear of it! In me own 'ouse, too! Me that has
buried three.
"Mrs. Tuck! Fools! Let me pass, you George! That child 'll 'ave
convulsions in a minute! ... Mrs. Tuck in my 'ouse!"
* * * * *
"I wish," murmured the doctor hopelessly, as he mopped his forehead,
"that I could understand the rules of their Society."
*XI*
*THE DIAGNOSIS*
I have heard it said by the enemies of Dr. Brink that he is surly, or,
as some prefer to have it, brusque. I cannot too strongly express my
disagreement with this view. I know the doctor intimately, and I can
assert with confidence that in private intercourse he is the soul of
courtesy, exactitude, and punctilio. If, during business hours, he
becomes what Mrs. Duke calls "crisp"--and I won't deny that this thing
sometimes happens--it behoves us, as an audience of Christian people, to
view this failing with the eye of charity, and to think of the
temptations which the poor man has to face.
Bovingdon Street has many graces; but gifts of mind are not conspicuous
amongst them. The capacity for giving evidence is possibly an instinct
and possibly an art, and even more possibly it is both. But it is a
certain thing that working a mangle makes you stupid. Which, of course,
accounts for Mrs. Rafferty.
She called in yesterday--a little, jug-shaped woman, having a limp
fringe and mysterious pains. She is a fine example of the sort of
temptation which is always luring on the Doctor to display his horrible
power of crispness. She is a fine example of the Bovingdon Street
matron.
I happened to be helping James to make a pancake when she came along,
and I was therefore privileged to overhear the particulars of Mrs.
Rafferty's disorder. And if I record exactly the dialogue to which I
listened, you will be able to judge as well as I or Mrs. Rafferty
whether the Doctor's sixpennyworth of diagnosis was value for money.
Behold, the chronicles:--
MRS. RAFFERTY: It's my pore back I come to see you for, Doctor: that and
a sort of dizziness what takes me in the leg. And me throat is sore.
And I gits sich 'orrid nightmares, Doctor, and I was goin' to arst you,
Doctor, do you think it right for anyone to be always feeling thirsty?
Because----
DR. BRINK: How long has this been going on?
MRS. R.: I don't say as the feelin' thirsty is a unpleasant feelin',
mind you; but I wondered if it was nat'ral. That's all I'm wonderin'
about, Doctor. You can't 'elp noticin' anythin' like that, and anybody
would fancy it's a bit queer to be _always_ feelin' thirsty. And then
the 'eadaches, Doctor! They comes on all so sudden, Doctor--unexpected,
like; and if it wasn't----
DOCTOR: How long has this been going on?
MRS. R.: You can see yerself 'ow pale I'm lookin', Doctor. I 'ad a drop
o' stout for me breakfast 'smornin'--no more'n would fill a teacup,
Doctor--and believe me or believe me not, it brought on the pains that
fearful I was obliged to scream. What do you think is the matter with
me, Doctor?
DOCTOR: I shall be better able to tell you when you've answered a few
questions. In the first place, how long has this sort of thing been
going on?
MRS. R.: It's the pain more'n the longness of it, Doctor, which I look
to. And if I close my eyes and touch anythink cold with me 'ands I kin
see a lot of funny green things all in front--floatin', if you
understand me, Doctor. Me 'usband, when 'e was a sowjer abroad in
Dublin, 'e got took with the same thing, along o' eatin' 'ysters in a
onfit state.
DOCTOR: How is your appetite, by the way?
MRS. R.: I was wonderin' if me lungs is affected, Doctor. If ever I
drink a cup of very 'ot tea I kin feel a funny sensation right down me
froat. What I reely want is change of hair.
DOCTOR: Do you drink much tea?
MRS. R.: It's good tea what we 'ave.
DOCTOR: Do you drink much tea?
MRS. R.: And besides, Doctor, I don't see as tea kin 'urt me, because me
an' my 'usband we're rather partickler about the class of----
DOCTOR: Do you drink much tea?
MRS. R.: And then again, Doctor, why should me 'air be fallin' out? I'm
not a old woman. Thirty-six is my age, and I ain't ashamed to own it.
It's a pity me 'air is fallin' out because they say as I'm a
young-looking woman for my age. And----
DOCTOR: When did you first notice that your hair was falling?
MRS. R.: I don't think that the state of me 'air is anythink to be
ashamed of, even now, mind you. But still it ain't a very pleasant
thing, especially at my age. Is it anythink to do with what I eat, do
you think, Doctor? I often wonder.
DOCTOR: How is your appetite?
MRS. R.: It isn't the quantity I was thinkin' of, Doctor, so much as the
class of food as we go in for. We both of us got a taste for 'am an'
bloaters, and so forth.
DOCTOR: Do you enjoy your food?