"Pity me," said that gentleman, "I have a hussy for a daughter. One who
makes sport of her poor old father's need. I do owe her the money. I
shall continue to owe it. I am entitled to owe it. I only got
half-a-crown for the whole thing--anaesthetist's fee included.
"Men like Marmaduke Wilkins get a hundred guineas for the same
operation. And then the patient has to pay another ten or twenty for
the anaesthetist. When a high-class, if modest surgeon, like myself,
consents to perform these things for a wage which would offend the
dignity of a dustman, why, damme, it is his _duty_ to swindle the
anaesthetist. Why----"
"What was your patient?" I asked.
"The patient? Oh, a girl in Mulberry Street. Works at the pickle
factory. Pretty girl, only eighteen. James cried. Rather
unprofessional, what? Now she has the cheek to ask for sixpence!"
"What was--er--the result of your high-class surgery? Is the girl
alive?"
"Alive! Why, my insulting young friend, she's back again at the pickle
works. Went to work on the sixth day. _My_ girls don't die."
"At work again in six days--after--after _that_! And you let her!"
"Better work than starve," said the doctor brusquely.... "How did you
enjoy yourself at Hampstead this afternoon?"
*XXII*
*LOST!*
It isn't often that Dr. Brink permits himself to have emotions during
business hours, but even the doctor looked astonished when O'Flannigan
came into his consulting-room. We called him O'Flannigan, because he did
not leave a visiting-card, and we had to call him _something_. And he
spoke with a trace of the Irish accent. He was a very tall man and very
stout, having dead-white hair, which he wore in curls, and a very red
face. His clothes were all of them black, and they shone in places with
a sort of oily lustre. He wore black gloves and a black tie, and he
carried a black umbrella.
"Evenin', Doctorrr," said he; "ut's a fine place ye got hearrr!"
The doctor bowed.
"Ut is a fine place," repeated the visitor, tapping the oilcloth with
his umbrella point; "but, begad, 'tis a mericle how you kin do ut.
Privut inkum purrhaps?"
"Why, yes," acknowledged Dr. Brink, "my income is certainly a private
matter."
"The divil ut is!" commented the visitor. "Me own's so damned privut
Oi've lost sight of ut this ten yeers past. Midwifery connection is
good, Oi onderstand. Ut's a sound, domestic practus, Doctorrr?"
The doctor nodded. Wonder had made him speechless.
"That's good now," ejaculated the visitor, holding tight to the
mantelpiece as he fished with his umbrella for a chair. "Give me a
sound domestic practus. It's these damned Alcoholics and so forth which
Oi deprecate, Doctorrr. They're no use to a man. They nevorrr pay up,
they nevorrr git bettorrr, and, be jabers, they nevorrr damned well die.
Ye put the takuns at three hunderrrd, Doctorrr? Begad, 'tis a poor
inkum. Faith, Oi've known a man do bettorrr cuttin' corns. 'Tis a cash
trade, is ut not, Doctorrr?"
"It is," said Dr. Brink. "What can I do for you?"
"Do for me?" echoed the visitor. "Whoi, if tis a drink yure profferin'
me, Doctorrr, Oi will name the ush'll. Three hunderrrd, eh? Begad,
'tis a paltry inkum--a damned dirrrty, snivelling sneakin' wasp-waisted
inkum for a gentleman to live upon. But 'tis a cash trade, to be shure,
and there's no anxiety, to be shure. If they die, why, dammit, they
die. You take yure thruppence and they take their chance. A veterinary
trade, in fact, Doctorrr. Do ye walk yure rounds, Doctorrr?"
"Cab 'em," snapped out Dr. Brink.
The visitor held on to the mantelpiece with both hands. "Holy
Motherrr!" he cried. "A cab is ut, ye say? On three hunderrrd? And Oi
been surgeon-majorrr in th' Army! Whoi, begad, Doctorrr, I have known
the toimes when half a dozen of us in th' Eightieth could drink yure cab
away at a sittin'. Cab did Oi say? Be the grace of Heaven, there was
gentlemen with us would dispose of a pair-horse brougham in the same
period. Cab? To the divil with cabs. Oi must stump ut. Stump ut on me
ten old toes. Meself, moind ye--a retired surgeon-majorrr of her late
Majesty's Army. And me over sixty, Doctorrr! It is thus that Britain
treats her warriors. Begad, they've even stole me pension from me.
When do Oi take overr, Doctorrr?"
"Take over what?"
"Why, dammit, man," began the visitor, but his flush of anger suddenly
died down. A look of bewilderment took its place. "Will ye pardon me,
Doctorrr," said the visitor slowly, in a voice which sounded husky.
"But tell me am Oi roight in assuming that I was privileged to meet ye
hearrr lost noight?"
The doctor shook his head.
"Then," cried the visitor, moved this time by an evidently powerful
emotion, "then tell me, man, for God's sake, tell me, is this not the
practus I bought from ye last noight?"
"You certainly haven't bought _this_ practice," responded Dr. Brink.
"It isn't for sale."
"Begad," mused the visitor, slowly rubbing his chin, "begad, Oi might
have known as much. It is a fine place ye have hearrr. Ye wouldn't be
for sellin' ut. Not be any means. 'Tis a fine place and a fine
practus. Indeed you would be foolish to part with ut, Doctorrr. At any
rate, for the sum Oi paid ye yesterday. But, begad, Oi never paid ut
ye. Indeed I didn't. Was I so drunk then? Oi doubt ut.
"Hearrr am Oi, an honest, Christian man, a professor of the healun art,
the noblest art which---- Begad, Oi _know_ Oi paid ut ye. And be
jabers, hearrr's--hearrr's the front-door key--yure front-door key--his,
Oi should say, Doctorrr, which he gave me when Oi, when Oi----
"For the love of Hiven, Doctorrr, tell me--tell me truly, Doctorrr,
where in Satan's name is the dirty little practus which I bought and
paid for yesterday?"
*XXIII*
*THE SURVIVOR*
Everybody must still remember the sensational explosion at Stoat's
cordite factory in Limehouse. It was quite the talk of last year's
gooseberry season. I may remind you that one departmental manager, one
bookkeeper, one lady typist, and eighteen hands were utterly and
instantaneously atomised; that the managing director himself sustained a
shock; and that more than seventy operatives had to be removed in
ambulances at the company's expense.
It will be remembered that very High Personages sent telegrams of
sympathy. A sum of money was publicly subscribed for the relief and
burial of the sufferers. The great heart of England was touched, though
it did not leave off beating.
But those whose recollection of that horrible, soul-thrilling
catastrophe is as keen as mine will remember that, viewed from the broad
and enlightened standpoint of news-value, its most important feature was
Mr. John Boyle. This honest artisan went up with the gentleman
book-keeper and the lady typist and the hands. But unlike them he came
down unbroken and almost unhurt, being so fortunate as to alight upon a
providential mound of cotton-waste.
Few people will need to be reminded how this clever action was rewarded.
A special (_D---- M----_) collection, amounting to nearly L300, was
raised in three weeks and presented to Mr. Boyle in recognition of his
courage and ingenuity. Pictures of Mr. Boyle in all varieties of dress,
attitude, and employment were published in the journals. I have an
especially vivid recollection of one picture, appearing in a Sunday
newspaper. The photographer had caught the noteworthy features of Mr.
Boyle at a particularly happy moment; and with consummate art he had
represented our hero as emerging from a bad fog with a patch on his
chest. This study bore the following inscription: "John Boyle at Home:
He nurses the baby."
The next stage in Mr. Boyle's development, or (to state it more
correctly) in the development of the public attitude towards Mr. Boyle,
was his engagement to appear at the Shoreditch Hippodrome in a dramatic
entertainment called "The Man Who was Blown Up."
But by the time he had reached this altitude of greatness the fame of
Mr. Boyle was already well established; his name had become familiar to
the national ear. For months before the day of Mr. Boyle's historic
decision to blend his destiny with that of the national drama it had
been a common thing to hear men say to other men: "'Ullo, Charlie; been
'avin' one with Boyle?"
This oft-repeated sally, which never failed to provoke laughter, was
popularly supposed to embody a charge of alcoholic excess.
In these days, when Mr. Boyle as "The Man Who was Blown Up" has enjoyed
three hundred consecutive nights of fame, it is regarded as a silly
thing to joke about him. He is now a solemn National fact.
But it was my own particular good fortune to meet Mr. Boyle at a period
when the hand of Fame had barely touched him. I made his acquaintance
within twenty-four hours after the tremendous moment which had so
exalted Mr. Boyle and his fortunes.
Mr. Boyle, having been detained for a brief period at a local infirmary,
was anointed with surgical balm and dismissed; when he immediately came
round to the sixpenny surgery of Dr. Brink, demanding a certificate of
injuries which should enable him to extract some monetary compensation
from the coffers of Stoat's Cordite Works, Limited. Mr. Boyle was not
then prognostic of the public rewards which awaited him.
Mr. Boyle having stated his business, the doctor became excited and
summoned me to leave the hiding-place and join him openly in the
consulting-room.
"This chap," he explained, "is John Boyle, who was blown up with other
employed objects at the cordite works, and who is still alive. If you
are a real journalist you will get 'copy' out of him."