DOCTOR: Come and see me again when you've finished that medicine. Pay
outside.
MRS. R.: And, Doctor, is there anything more besides the physic? I
thought perhaps you would give me a pill.
DOCTOR: I am giving you three pills. One of them I want you to take
when you get in, another at night, and----
MRS. R.: About the money, Doctor: I s'pose as it'll do if I pay next
week?
*XII*
*THE TUSKERS*
It has not been the fortune of the present historian to enjoy a personal
experience of the state of matrimony. But he has never been lacking in
awe for the wonders attaching to that institution. It has always seemed
to him, looking upward, as it were, from the mire of bachelordom, that
the married mind is subject to rare emotions, productive of a singular
philosophy which one must view with astonishment, if not with envy.
In illustration of my meaning, permit me to cite the case of the
Tuskers.
The Tuskers, as we were definitely informed by Mr. Tusker, have been
tasting the wedded blisses for nearly eighteen years. And Mr. Tusker
called in recently at Doctor Brink's in the matter, as he expressed it,
of "any old bottles, any old rags; old bones, rabbit-skins, waste paper
to buy," which somehow looks wrong. Let us try again--
Any old bottles?
Any old rags?
Old bones,
Rabbit-skins,
Waste paper,
To buy!
That is better. Mr. Tusker is nothing if not lyrical.
Also, he is a massy-jawed person in a muffler, having a dent over one
eye and a limpy walk. Likewise, he is accompanied by an objectionable
smell, arising partly from his trade, profession, or occupation. It is
an impressionist sort of smell. The impression it suggested to me was
that Mr. Tusker had been subjected to long, long years of solitary
confinement in an over-heated chicken-coop.
Mr. Tusker, having recited his little poem, was rewarded by a "Not
to-day, thank you," from Doctor Brink.
"What?" cried Mr. Tusker. "Not any old bottles; any old rags?"
"No," insisted Doctor Brink.
"Ho," quoth Mr. Tusker. "Right you are, then. One minute, Doctor. The
missus. Ahtside. Can I trouble you?"
"How?" inquired the doctor.
"You know, mate," expounded Mr. Tusker. "Below par. Orfer oats. See?
Jes' run the rule over 'er, Doctor; will ye?"
"Certainly," replied the doctor, the light of intelligence at last
illuminating his eye. "Bring the lady inside."
Mr. Tusker accordingly repaired to the roadway, where his barrow was in
waiting. It was a roomy barrow, filled to overflowing with bulging
sacks, one of which, being pushed, came to life as Mrs. Tusker, and
walked into Doctor Brink's consulting-room.
She was a tired old sack, was Mrs. Tusker, much patched, even as to her
face, which was further distinguished by being bruised in several
places, a fact which accentuated its native homeliness.
"Below par. Orfer oats," repeated Mr. Tusker, with a jerk of the thumb
in the direction of the old sack. "Jes' run yere rule over 'er, Doc."
"Had a bad accident, hasn't she?" began the doctor. "That plaster----"
"Never mind the plaster," said the husband.
"No," repeated Mrs. Tusker, "never mind that."
"Orfer oats, see?" prompted Mr. Tusker.
"Ain't got no appetite," confirmed the lady.
"'Er system. See?" added Mr. Tusker.
"Yus," assented Mrs. Tusker. "Me system."
"Jes' run yere rule over 'er," said Mr. Tusker.
"Well," mused the doctor, "want of appetite doesn't produce itself, you
know. I mean to say---- Her face now. It's very swollen. The lower
part espec----"
"Never mind 'er face, ole man," suggested Mr. Tusker.
"No," said the patient; "never mind me face."
"_I_ done that, ye see," remarked Mr. Tusker.
"Yus," replied Mrs. Tusker, "'e done that."
Doctor Brink, after staring hard at Mr. Tusker, resumed his inspection
of the wife. "I don't know what sort of appetite you expect to have," he
said, "with those four bruises. Her face is simply pul----"
"Oh!" reflected Mr. Tusker, "them marks is out o' date. They put me
away for them."
Mrs. Tusker nodded.
"I--I don't quite understand," exclaimed the doctor.
"I done 'em of a Saturday night, ye see," explained the husband. "And
they put me away to the Scrubs. Three weeks I was in."
"Three weeks," repeated Mrs. Tusker.
"They on'y let me out s'mornin'."
This statement was audited and found correct by Mrs. Tusker. "On'y this
mornin'," she said.
"This is the state I find 'er in," continued Mr. Tusker. "Orfer oats.
They put me away. See? And there wasn't no one to look arter 'er."
"Nobody to look arter me," agreed the wife.
"Her neck must be troubling her too," began the doctor. "I see she's
been rather badly sca----"
"Never mind the scalding," protested Mr. Tusker. "Give 'er some physic,
Doctor."
"Yus," echoed Mrs. Tusker. "Gimme some physic."
"You see," explained the husband, evidently determined that this
important detail in the history of the case should not be overlooked, "I
bin away. They put me away for three weeks. And this is 'ow I find
'er. She ain't 'ad no one to look arter 'er. See? Give 'er some
physic, Doctor."
So they had their physic, and they went away.
I watched them passing up the road, Mr. Tusker limping behind his barrow
and this peculiar old sack of his limping behind Mr. Tusker. And Mr.
Tusker, as he limped, was declaiming a kind of poem--a rude sort of
piece; but I've no doubt that in the ears of the old sack-thing at his
heel, that which he uttered was as the music of the spheres. And the
words of his poem were these:--
Any old bottles?
Any old rags?
Old bones,
Rabbit-skins,
Waste paper,
To buy!
As they receded into the endless perspective of Bovingdon Street, the
sacks became confused in my sight, and I wondered which of them
contained the rags and bones and bottles, or which was occupied by
rabbit-skins and Mrs. Tusker.... Not that it really mattered.
*XIII*
*ART LOVERS*
Mr. Clarence Gordon Prince appeared first in the capacity of a patient.
He came to have a tooth out. "Three teeth out, to tell ye the troof,
Doctor," he added, and with the air of a man who had given a liberal
order and knew it, he seated himself, throwing back his head and
shutting both eyes.
"Want 'em all out now--at once?" demanded the doctor.
"Cert'nly," responded Clarence. "I'm a gunner."
Dr. Brink evidently perceived the point of this observation, for he made
no further speech, but drew the teeth forthwith. And Clarence kept on
smiling.
He performed his subsequent ablutions in silence, but, having completed
them and deposited three sixpences upon the consulting-room table, he
again spoke.
"Well, Doctor," he said, "I'll say good-night, and pop off," which he
did.
But when he reached the door-step, Baffin found him, and Baffin rejoiced
in the find. "You've been a soldier?" exclaimed Baffin.
"Gun-layer. 'Owitzer Battery, R.A. Nine year. Invalided." Clarence
smiled again.
"I want you," said Baffin. "Wait there."
Mr. Prince accordingly waited, and his patience was rewarded by the
reappearance of Baffin, with whom was Dr. Brink. "This gentleman," said
the doctor, "is an artist. He wants you to sit for him. How tall are
you?"
"Six-one-and-a-'arf."
"How much round the chest?"
"Forty-two."
"Round the arm?"
"Twenty."
"Got a shovel?"
Mr. Prince's smile gave place to a suspicious frown. "I could _get_
one," he said, at last.
"Bring it along to-morrow," commanded the doctor. "We want you to sit.
You'll be well paid. You're out of work, I suppose?"
"I'm out of work all right," responded Mr. Prince. "But--but ... what
you want me to do?" demanded Mr. Prince.
"Never mind that," he was told. "Just come along. And wear your oldest
clothes. And bring the spade."
To the surprise of both Baffin and the doctor, Clarence did come along,
accompanied by the spade. He was very out of work indeed, it seemed,
and had sold his medals to pay for the comfort of having his teeth out,
and for subsequent treatment at the "African Chief." He wanted work,
and was willing, but this yere sitting game--"what was it?"
Baffin took him to the "studio," _nee_ wash-house, and there he drank
some tea, and was confronted by an easel, and was induced to seat
himself upon the extreme corner of a small chair, whilst Baffin
pretended to sketch him. This proceeding is technically described as
putting your model at his ease.
At the end of an hour the soldier was asked to stand up and drink beer
out of a jug, a function which he performed with very tolerable grace.
He was then allowed to go home.
"But come here early to-morrow morning," said Baffin. "Do you think
you'll like the work?"
"Work seems all right," responded Mr. Prince. "I'll come at nine
o'clock."
He arrived at the time stated, having carefully attired himself in his
Sunday "blacks," and a white turn-down collar. He had likewise operated
with sand upon the metal parts of his shovel, so that that instrument
glittered exceedingly. Also, he had perfumed his hair. And Baffin
ordered him to go home again and reinvest himself with the habiliments
of toil.
The spade we kept and improved upon in a corner of the doctor's little
garden--a corner in which rare bulbs were buried. Clarence returned to
us looking natural and dirty, and wearing a resigned expression.
Then he sat, or rather stood, in earnest, whilst Baffin "studied" him in
pencil and charcoal and crayon, and in every other sort of pigment.
And when the artist had tired of this employment, Mr. Prince came down
from his platform and studied the pictures with an air of cold reserve.
He said that he thought he might as well be going. And he went.
The subsequent sittings were in all respects a repetition of the first.
But at the end of the week, a strange thing happened. Mr. Clarence
Gordon Prince permitted himself to give utterance to a remark. He had
been paid his first week's wages--a sovereign, and, having spat upon
this coin and donned his jacket, he tapped Mr. Baffin with his knuckle
and performed the feat in question. "One day--me lad," he said, "I'll
show ye _my_ pictures."
And on the last day of his engagement he duly fulfilled the promise. He
had spat upon a sovereign and donned his jacket, just as before, and he
had walked towards the door, but half-way there he stopped and faced his
late employer.
"Look here," he said, as he quietly divested himself of his jacket and
waistcoat, "look 'ere, ole man, you've acted very fair to me, and now
I'm gointer show ye my pictures."
With this preface he removed his shirt.
The wondering Baffin was then confronted with a naked chest--a chest of
many colours. "The Duchess of Gainsborough," said Mr. Prince. "There's
eight weeks' work in 'er. Done in Ceylon. I was soldiering in Ceylon.
If you look round the corner you will see a picture of Eve bein' tempted
by the serpent. On me right arm there's 'Erod's daughter, and on me
left a photo of Jim Sayers. 'Ow's all this for picture work?
"I was under the needle for pretty near a twelve-month, and time I left
the service there was on'y one man in the battery as could show the 'arf
of what I can. I always 'ad a fancy for colour work."
The model slowly resumed his clothes. "I love a well-done chest, I do,"
he said.
"Not, mind you, as I am one to turn 'is nose up at a picture on the
wall, same's you might make yesself. Not at all. But me own fancy is
for breast and arm work. That has always bin my fancy.
"And I look upon you as a very fair and civil-spoken young man, which is
why I let you see me. I'm a bit particular 'oo I show my pictures to.
I'll be getting along now. Good-night, sir."
On the threshold of the door he paused again.
"One more thing, young man. I ain't the sort of bloke to show me chest
around; but you've treated me decent, man to man, as the saying goes.
And, therefore, if ever the fancy takes you to show me to your friends,
why say the word and--'ere I am.
"I'll say good-night now."
*XIV*
*THREE BABIES*
One of the disadvantages attaching to Dr. Brink's profession is its
stay-at-home character. A doctor has not time to travel. And it is a
well-known fact that travelling improves the mind.
Think, for instance, how my doctor's mind would relish the improvement
associated with a short spell of travel on the London, Tilbury, and
Something Railroad! I travelled on this system only yesterday--it is
the direct route to Dr. Brink's--and I protest that one of my
fellow-travellers--a baby--was really _most_ improving.
This baby came into our compartment head downwards, and advertised his
displeasure with this state of things by means at his command.
A little pale-faced girl who followed Baby uttered remonstrances, which
were answered by the little rickety boy who carried him. I saw and heard
these things but vaguely, because our carriage was filled with noise and
smell, and its lights were dim. And many people had breathed within it,
and the gentlemen about me were smoking shag tobacco.
The little pale-faced girl expressed herself with emphasis, coughing and
gasping between each adjective. There was a great deal of fringe upon
her forehead and a great deal of feather on her head, and some broken
teeth within her mouth. She dug at her companion with a bony elbow, as
they stood there, being supported in an upright attitude by means of
other people's knees and also by means of a rack provided for light
articles only. "You clumsy tyke, you!" shrilled the girl, by way of
concluding her address.
"Hee-haw!" responded the youth, with satire. It was made evident by
certain signs, such as the cheerfulness of his conversation and a sort
of _neglige_ as to his fringe, that he had spent his evening amid
congenial surroundings. '"Old the kid yeself, then," he added. And his
companion took the child.
"What you done with them suckers?" she then demanded; upon which the
young man brought forth bull's-eyes from his trouser pocket. With one
of these the little girl essayed to comfort Baby, holding the evil thing
between his toothless gums. But Baby continued, as before, to moan and
writhe.... "I fink that beetroot ain't agreein' wiv 'im," said the girl.
The little rickety boy made no reply. He was busy, having a handful of
cigarette-ends to strip and bind anew with paper. "Why don't you stop
'is noise?" he at length demanded, applying his tongue to the completed
"fag." "Call yeself a mother?"
The fact as to Baby's authorship I had, of course, suspected. I
perceived, however, that our fellow-passengers did not mind.
The girl did not allow the young man's question to remain unanswered.
"Never trouble," she said, "what I call myself. What do you call yeself?
A man, I suppose. Funny sort of man, ain't you? More like a ape. More
like a crab. Fine 'usband for a person, ain't you? 'Usband, eh?"
An elderly man at my right hand removed his pipe and grinned. The
gentleman opposite to him winked; and a woman in the corner giggled
rustily. You might have supposed them to be tickled by a sense of the
deeper irony which underlay this mother's sarcasm. But, as a matter of
fact, the reflections which moved them were not of this character. The
elderly man at my right explained his sentiments publicly. "Puts me in
mind," he said, "of my fust. 'E were jest sich a skinny one."
And Rickets spoke again. "Why can't you stop the beggar's noise?" he
demanded. "Worse nor a waggon-load o' tomcats, that row is."
"What," demanded the girl, "d'you expect me to do? Put a muzzle on 'im?
Why don't you take an' stop 'im yeself? 'Andy enough wiv yere tongue,
you are. S'pose you show us 'ow to do the business."
"My way o' stoppin' 'im would be easy," said the boy, with a stupid
grin. "I should lay a strap acrost 'is back."
His companion reapplied the elbow treatment. "You do!" she squeaked
between the digs. "You do, you little ape. Let me see you. On'y let
me see you. There'd be a strap 'crost your back blessed soon. Not 'arf,
there wouldn't. You baboon, you!"
The girl looked helplessly at nothing, "hushing" the baby upon her
breast by means of sudden, horrible, little jerks. Such a pitiful
parody of rock-a-bye. She was too young and pale properly to know or
understand the business of mothering, which is a difficult business to
learn in your spare time, especially when they shut you out for a
"quarter" if you are two minutes late at the factory. So that this
London mother sucked at a bull's-eye, and yawned, and jerked, while the
London baby lay in her arms and moaned.... "I fink it is the beetroot,"
reiterated the mother presently. "He looks so cold, Sam."
"It's wind," pronounced the boy, bringing forth a mouth-organ and
carefully wiping it upon his sleeve. "Give 'im a tap, same's I told
you. 'Seaweed,' mates." With which announcement the husband and father
proceeded to wring out the melody of that name. We all tapped time with
our feet, and the mother sucked her bull's-eye, and the baby moaned.
"He looks so cold," repeated the mother, as the mouth-organ subsided.
"Give us 'Cock o' the North,' Sam."
Sam obeyed this summons with alacrity.
"If you will pardon me, young woman," observed the elderly man at my
right hand, having duly applauded the soloist--"if you will pardon me,
young woman, I will take the liberty of recommending a cold key. It
catches the breath, if you take my meanin'. See?"
"No; I don't see," responded the mother sharply. It resented the
preferment of counsel. This reflected upon its competence: this
offended its sense of dignity. It was a married woman.
The husband readdressed himself to his mouth-organ. But as he put that
instrument of melody unto his lips, the girl reached sharply forth and
stayed him.
"E--'e seems to be a-chokin', Sam," she said. "I think--I
b'lieve--I--what you grinnin' for, you ugly ape? When'll we get to Bow?
'Ow many stations? You old 'im, Sam: I b'lieve--I--he looks so cold.
He looks _so_ cold."
"Give 'im another bull's-eye," suggested Sam. "There's peppermint in
bull's-eyes. Next station's Bow. What are you grizzlin' for?"
"'E--'e looks so cold," explained the wife. There was a flame in her
eye. A new flame--a flame of fear and joy. It was as though a match
had been put to her soul. She was learning the business.
The woman in the corner left off giggling. She spoke to the mother.
"You run along to bed with 'im, my gel. Never you mind about 'is looks.
Run along to bed with 'im, so's 'e can be warm."
And the girl tightened her hold upon the parcels rack; and swayed her
body gently, like a real mother. The boy, her husband, drew forth a
series of discords from the mouth-organ. But she did not scream at him
as before. She stood there, dumbly, rocking her baby like a real
mother.
And the baby did not moan. The baby lay there on her bosom, silent and
strangely still.
Then, with a jerk, our train pulled up. And the girl let go of the
rack-rail and stumbled out. "Come on, Sam," she said, "we gotter 'urry.
'E looks so cold."
"Wait till I light me fag, then," said the boy. He struck a match on
his boot-heel, and followed her, whistling cheerfully.
* * * * *
Our train moved on. And the elderly man at my right hand imparted a
secret to me.
"That's their fust," he said.