VISITOR: If you please, Doctor, I come round ere about the boy Cooper.
I'm the father, sir. We want you to come round and see 'im. 'E's very
bad, sir.
DOCTOR: Made rather fools of yourselves, haven't you?
VISITOR: We ain't give 'im none o' Dr. Popham's medsun, sir; not a drop.
We want you to come round, Doctor. 'E's very bad.
DOCTOR: All right. I'll be round in half an hour.
VISITOR: Can't you come round at once, sir? 'E's very bad. 'E don't
seem able to swaller, sir, and there's lumps in 'is neck. And the man
from the 'ealth orfice ain't ser much as bin near us.
DOCTOR: That's your fault. I told him you were going to make a fuss,
and I suppose he's busy and has put it off until to-morrow.
VISITOR: Can't you make 'im come to-night, Doctor? The boy is very bad.
And one of the other boys is sneezin', and the other one 'e says there
is a funny feelin' in 'is thumb. Can't you come at once, Doctor?
DOCTOR: Wait one minute, then, till I've written these prescriptions.
VISITOR: Go' bless you, Doctor. We ain't ser much as looked at Dr.
Popham's physic. We ain't, straight. The boy is very bad. 'Is face 'as
gone a very funny colour. 'Ot this evenin', ain't it? Much obliged to
you, I'm sure, Doctor. Think you kin put it right? The boy _is_ bad.
It's a 'ot evenin'. What they playin' at in the 'ealth orfice,
Doctor--leavin' a man's child to die?
*XIX*
*CURING THE CURER*
"Yes, Aunt Isobel," said James--"I quite agree with you. The silly old
duffer ought certainly to take an anti-something. He's as down-hearted
and high-tempered as possible."
"Certainly," quoth Aunt Isobel--a thin and very definite lady, with a
wire-woven manner--"_something_ ought to be done. Your father is looking
very unwell. I attribute his condition to overwork and
undernourishment."
"Nourishment's all right, Aunt Isobel," protested James. "He eats
enough to fill an ox."
Aunt Isobel winced and raised an arresting forearm, as if to ward off
some physical menace. "You really do employ the most trying phrases, my
dear," she said. "Personally, I am a stronger believer in Anti-Nervo.
Two tablets, three times a day--one before each meal, and one after. It
is really a quite remarkable remedy. Poverty of blood is one of a great
number of complaints for which the makers themselves especially
recommend it. Poverty of blood is, of course, your father's chief
trouble. He is much under-nourished."
"You ought to see him walk into a steak," said James.
"If," pursued Aunt Isobel, "he really does receive a proper quantity of
food, then I'm inclined to fear that it is food of poor quality. If,
indeed, both the quality _and_ quantity of his food should prove to be
adequate, I can only suppose that he is suffering from insufficient
sleep. Or is it brain fag? It _might_, of course, be liver or weak
heart. Or some secret trouble, perhaps. Anti-Nervo is strongly
recommended for all these complaints. He must certainly be made to take
some Anti-Nervo."
"He must certainly be made to do something violent," admitted James.
"He's certainly got hold of a most phenomenal hump."
Aunt Isobel was again forced to push off imaginary assailants. "Where
_did_ you learn, my dear," she inquired, in a poignant sort of tone, "to
use such fearfully emancipated expressions? Another remedy in which I
have the greatest possible faith is Sal-Toxine. Do you know Sal-Toxine?
But, of course, you don't; it is quite a novel remedy. I myself have
only--why, here is your dear father."
And here, indeed, that gentleman was; wearing the gloomiest possible
air, and a very dirty collar. He blundered heavily through the door,
and cast himself heavily upon a chair. Having disembarrassed himself of
a hat and a stethoscope, he delivered an original and entertaining
monologue.
"May my bones burn in hell," he said, "if I conduct this profitable
enterprise for another damned minute. I've got the largest and dirtiest
and sickest collection of common drunks in London. I've got all the
Phthisics from here to Limehouse. Every pre-ordained son of a witch of
a bricklayer within hail of the parish has broken his bandy leg, and
called me in to set it. Every single woman that ever worked in a jam
factory is 'expecting' to-morrow, and there isn't a pint of milk or a
handful of coal between six of 'em. I haven't slept a wink since
yesterday morning, or sat down since last night. I haven't had a wash
since Monday, or a drink since last April. I'm fed up."
This speech was listened to by James with polite attention, but perfect
calm. Aunt Isobel, upon the other hand, was unable to suppress a
loudish shudder.
"Hullo!" cried Dr. Brink, with evident surprise. "Here's Isobel. How
are you, Isobel? Hear you've changed parsons again. What a rabid young
flirt you are."
"We have been discussing the subject of your deplorable poverty of
health," responded the flirt. "We have decided that you must be made to
take a tonic--Anti-Nervo, say, or Sal-Toxine. We have the very greatest
faith in them, especially Anti-Nervo. You take two tablets, three times
daily: one before and one after each meal."
"Can't I have one in my bath, as well?" asked Doctor Brink.
"The directions," responded Aunt Isobel, "are very explicit. Two
tablets three times daily--one before and one after each meal. It is a
wonderful remedy. My own doctor at Chiswick--a _really_ clever man--is
perfectly charmed with it. He has analysed it several times. He has
the most perfectly refined voice that I have ever met with in a man.
_He_ takes his profession quite seriously. He is an M.B. of Edinburgh,
and a surgeon as well, and they say he is quite the youngest man who has
ever attempted the two things at once. He plays the banjo most
delightfully."
"Good at cracking nuts, too, isn't he?" suggested the doctor in a tired
voice.
"Of course," continued Aunt Isobel, "we don't want to insist upon
Anti-Nervo if there is any other genuine tonic in which you have more
faith. I know many extremely intelligent people who simply swear by
Sal-Toxine; and then, of course, there is Pherantidote. I have heard
that Our Queen uses that. What is your opinion of Pherantidote?"
"Well," responded Doctor Brink, "it's a dam small bottle for
one-and-eight. Do you really think I'm seedy, Isobel?"
"We are both agreed that you require----"
"What I require, old girl," said Doctor Brink, rising slowly to his
feet, "is a job in the City. I want to try a new system of
exploitation. My game's too deadly simple: I'm tired of pumping aniline
dye and water into hungry bellies for a thousand a year. I'm tired of
the filthy working-man--tired of seeing him so close. He smells of
beer, and his hands are so cold. His eyes are awful, and they give me
nightmares.... I want to kill the cad more profitably. I want to start
a trouser-button works, or some chutney mills, or something. I can't
stand it any longer--this deadly boredom: this watching the dumb beast
die."
"Well," said Aunt Isobel, "I can seriously recommend you to pin your
faith to Anti-Nervo. You take two tablets three times daily."
*XX*
*MILK*
I have long been interested in Mr. Binney. He is the only milkman I have
ever seen who looks any different from other milkmen. His very voice is
different; for, whereas other milkmen are sudden and shrill of
utterance, Mr. Binney has cultivated a profounder, more scholarly
method, and he has a voice of deep bass quality.
I have sat at an upper window of the Bovingdon Street dispensary and
watched this tradesman closely when he has been conducting milkcans to
the houses opposite. I have observed his slow, deliberate tread, so
thoroughly in keeping with the fulness of his girth and stature. I have
noted his extensive face, so plain and wise and red. I have remarked
his drooping eyelid and crimson neck, his scant white locks, and row
upon row of chins--features insignificant in themselves, but, when
combined, imparting to his countenance a strangely judicial character.
This effect of power (such is the individuality of the man) receives
additional strength even from the trivial business of his calling. Mr.
Binney, when handing a milkcan through some parlour window, looks less
like a milkman than any other imaginable human thing. He handles the
pewter vessel gingerly, daintily, as if it were a precious casket, and a
sort of trembling eagerness is sometimes to be observed in his
demeanour.
There is nothing commercial in Mr. Binney's manner.
He does not seem to sell his milk. He bestows it.
To see him gingerly proffering his battered cans is to see, as it were,
an earthly Providence--a conscious benefactor, distributing Nature's
bounty to her helpless children.
He accepts the copper tokens which reward his ministrations with an air
of gracious calm as far removed from any taint of barter as are his
actions. You might suppose him to be a priest receiving offertory.
The same spirit of gentleness distinguishes his method of proclamation.
Mr. Binney does not use the cry of "Milk-ho!" which his fellow-milkmen
favour. I have already stated that the tone of his voice is deeper and
more profound than that which they employ. Pushing his little handcart
before him, he causes his utterance to correspond with his gait--which
is majestic.
"Milk! milk! _milk!_" he exclaims--or, rather, utters--in a tone which
is at once appealing and authoritative.
Mr. Binney so interested me that I reported him to the doctor. "What is
the mystery of this unusual milkman?" I said. But the doctor only
smiled.
A day or two afterwards, however, when I was seated in anxious
expectancy at the upper window, Doctor Brink came up and brought me my
answer. "Waiting for your milkman?" he said.... "Ha! I've just been
sent for to him. Come round with me now and see him in his little
home.... I shall want some help."
As we walked along, the doctor carried his explanation a little further.
"We shall have to take his clothes off," he observed. "If once we can
get him undressed he's fixed for a week, because he cannot hold things
steady, and he's fat, and his trousers are tight, and--oh, here we are."
A perfectly quiet and collected old lady received us on the doorstep.
"He's cut 'isself this time," she announced; "fell agin the railings by
the church. But he's very jolly and 'igh-sperited, Doctor, and I'm sure
the sewing won't be any trouble to you. Is this your assistant?"
The doctor nodded. "Where is he?" he demanded.
"In 'is own old armchair," replied the woman. "Per'aps you'll get 'is
clothes off, Doctor. It's on'y the trousers that matter. They'll puzzle
'im till Sunday _this_ time, they will."
We found Mr. Binney in the situation reported. He received us with
cheers and a poetic outburst.
"Dr. Brink,
Full of chink,
I _don't_ think"--
he exclaimed; adding a personal couplet--
"I'm old Binney,
Not so damned skinny."
"Doctor," he continued, "'ave a drink?" Upon the doctor declining this
offer, Mr. Binney chuckled loudly and extended--or tried to extend--an
arm. "Feel me pulse, old buck," he shouted. "Let's see if you know
yere business. If ye can feel old Binney's pulse I'll give you 'arf a
dollar, 'cause I'll be damned if ole Binney kin feel it 'isself."
"Loss of feeling, eh?" said the doctor, in his suavest tone. "Ha!
you'll feel _this_ all right." With which words he inserted a surgical
needle in Mr. Binney's cheek.
"Oy!" cried Mr. Binney, "keep orf the grarse!"
But the doctor continued to ply his busy thread, and Mr. Binney, being
temporarily incapable of performing any but the most elementary
movements, was constrained to endure this treatment. When the doctor
had completed it--Mr. Binney having several times admonished him to
"keep orf the grarse!"--and we had removed that garment which exerted
such a powerful influence upon the question of Mr. Binney's freedom,
that gentleman once more expressed himself in verse, saying--
"Doctor Brink,
Tip 'im the wink,
Give 'im a drink,
I don't think.
Put 'im in clink,
Tiddely-wink,
Tiddely-wink,
Give 'im a drink.
Give 'im a----