"You _are_ a silly fool, Brink."
Even the surrounding helots recognised and responded to the
psychological significance of the doctor's City costume. I shall always
remember an observation uttered by Ma Levinsky, who kept the fish shop
at the corner.
It was Banking Day, and the doctor, suitably apparelled and accompanied
by the bag, was walking West, accompanied by your servant, to whom he
had promised to exhibit the interior of a real bank, and also to show
how one conducts an operation called "paying in." And when we passed
her, Ma Levinsky spoke to us, saying, "Cheero, Doctor, ole love. Got a
baby in the bag?" This to THE DOCTOR, mind you! You perceive the weird
magic of this cap.
But even the two hours of holiday which the doctor "stood himself" on
Banking Days would come to an end, although it was not the least
remarkable fact connected with the whole absurd proceeding that the two
hours in question began at two o'clock and did not end till half-past
six. But when they did end, the doctor's sudden masquerade would also
end. The poacher's coat, the golfing shoes, would vanish, and in their
place appeared the solemn calf--gent's heavy walking--the not less
solemn morning coat--a somewhat tarnished vestment, but of undeniable
solemnity--and, lastly, the solemnest thing of all, the final token, the
apotheosis--the doctor's black silk hat.
It was a profoundly aged hat. A hat of many lustres, the which had
swallowed up its own. But it was a _hat_--a black silk hat, and being
such it complied with all the conditions: it sufficed: it left no room
for criticism. And you did not catch the doctor looking human when he
had that hat on.
I will not pretend that the doctor loved his hat. "It's the price which
I pay for my soul, this damned thing," he once explained to me. "I hate
to have to take it out with me, but Democracy insists. Democracy has a
sense of what is due to it. In Norfolk, you could wear what you
liked--your mother's bonnet if you wanted to. But you couldn't think
what you liked or love what you liked. Dammit, you couldn't even swear
at what you liked. Here, you are at liberty to do what you jolly well
please; but as to wearing what you please--why, that's another matter.
The doctor is known by his hat. They look for the hat. They expect
that. They _pay_ for the hat. And being an honest sort of chap (at
bottom), I give them what they pay for. This one cost me
ten-and-sixpence."
Neither Ma Levinsky nor her rich relations would dare to bandy chaff
with the doctor when he was the doctor--when he wore the hat. Even the
leisured classes, airing their minds and matter as they propped up the
fabric of the "African Chief," forbore to utter even a whisper of native
pleasantry. Even the Jew-boys reserved the shafts of their wit for
meaner quarry. The black hat awed them all.
I remember a certain Banking Day when I persuaded the doctor, cap and
all, to enter a public-house. It was called by the name of the "Four
Soldiers," and a board outside its windows proclaimed that Devonshire
cyder could be had within. But when we got within we found that
somebody had won some money at somebody else's expense, and that this
event was being celebrated. And our advent was accordingly received
with criticism and comment: wherefore we departed--quick.
But hardly had we arrived at the surgery when a messenger appeared--a
rather anguished messenger, not very lucid. I answered his ring myself,
and can therefore speak authoritatively.
"Dockeratome, young man?"
"Yes," I said.
"Telms wanted, quick. Ole Joe Black. Up the pole. Barmy. See?
Murder, see? Telms wanted."
"Where?" I inquired.
"Never mind where," responded this helpful emissary. "Telms wanted....
Dockeratome?" he finally demanded, after a reflective pause.
I called the doctor down to him at that stage; and the doctor helped him
to unlock his bosom. We found that old Joe Black and his complicated
infirmities were to be found at the "Four Soldiers"--the very house of
cheer which had so cheerfully exported us about five minutes ago....
I--I wilted. The doctor smiled. He also put his hat on.
When we arrived at the "Four Soldiers" I found myself entering the
public-house parlour of that guesthouse a few paces ahead of the doctor.
And I also found that a seafaring gentleman with a broken nose had
marked my entry.
"'Ere's our little love-child come in again," observed this mariner
cheerfully. "Drop Jim a 'int aside the 'ead wiv yere belt-end, Bill."
But then----
But then--he saw _the hat_! Bill saw it also. Twenty other merry
gentlemen shared also in the vision. And a silence, a sticky silence,
thick as treacle, suddenly manifested itself. And we all looked up at
the ceiling.
There was a hook on the ceiling, and a piece of rope and a man was
hanging there, the rope curled round his body and one leg. The man was
addressing the world beneath him; and now that the world had grown
strangely silent, his words were plain to hear.
"Call yerselves _men_," the man was saying, "_I_ call ye caterpillars.
Stand by, ye greasy toads, and watch a true man 'ang 'isself. 'Ang
'isself, d'y'ear? 'Ang 'isself. I _will_ 'ang meself. I'll 'ang
meself dead as dogs' meat, and there's not a swab in Limus dare stop me.
Not one in this room. Not a god-forsaken son of a lady in this room.
Not even you, Tom Tinker."
Tom Tinker being thus addressed made answer. He happened to be the
landlord of the inn, and a regard for his own future caused him to be
solicitous for that of the man on the ceiling.
"Don't you be silly, Joe, me lad," he answered. "Don't you be rash.
You'll regret it, you know; you will that. Come down, now, when I tell
ye; come down before ye forget yeself. D'y'ear me? Come down. You'll
make a fool of yeself in a minnit."
The man on the ceiling replied to this suggestion by removing a boot and
hurling it at the prophet's head. In so doing, he obtained a view of
the solemn countenance and black hat of the doctor.
The strained and tragic expression of our gymnast's visage immediately
gave place to one of nervous greeting.
"Evenin', Doctor!" he said.
"Evening!" replied the doctor. "Come off that hook."
"Whaffor?" demanded the man.
"Because I tell you to. Come off, quick."
The man began to whimper. "I can't," he said. "The rope's broke. 'Ow
can I?"
"Jump."
"Jump?" echoed the man.
"Yes," said the doctor, "jump. I'll catch you. Jump!"
The man jumped.
We passed out amid a silence more than ever obvious. I remember one
thing clearly. The door was held open for me by an effusive, smiling
sailor-man--a sailor-man with a broken nose.
I walked out stiffly, with confidence, with pride. I walked in the
shadow of THE HAT.
*XXIX*
*ON EARNING SIXPENCE*
Behold our doctor on crutches and having his foot in a sling; deprived
also of all burgundies, by the heartless mandate of another doctor.
Behold him also in controversy with his daughter.
"You are perfectly insane," said that lady. "Doctor Beaver said quite
distinctly that if you so much as moved your leg for the next three
days, he wouldn't be answerable for the consequences."
"Haven't I been saying for the last three years that Beaver is an
ignorant old quack?" inquired the doctor.
"And now," pursued his daughter, "because a drunken old woman comes
round and raves at you, smelling of gin like a--like a cistern, you
calmly propose to crawl out and go all the way to Burbidge Street,
because her daughter happens to object to the locum. I'm quite sure he's
a very decent locum; quite the nicest we've ever had. He's engaged to a
school-mistress, and he knitted that waistcoat himself."
"The locum is a blasted young pup," responded Doctor Brink.
"Heavens!" cried his daughter, "whatever is the matter with _this_
locum?"
"He's giving 'em _real drugs_," said the doctor, with gloom.
"What if he is?" argued James; "I don't suppose it'll kill 'em."
"Still," mused the doctor, "when people aren't used to that sort of
damfoolery---- I don't want my statistics mucked up. Besides, there's
the expense. And----"
"Oh, blow the 'ands,'" replied his little daughter. "You've engaged the
man, and you've got to keep him. And you've got to pay him. He's come
here prepared to do a week's work, so for goodness sake let him do it.
I'm sure he's willing enough, at any rate."
"Willing?" repeated the doctor; "my dear girl, he is the ultimate thing
in eagerness. I----"
But the doctor's further observations on this head were interrupted by
the entry of the subject of them--a young gentleman in correct dress,
with fair hair and a face, who was introduced to me as Doctor Tewksbury.
"I am sorry to say, Doctor," remarked this young man, "that that old
woman in Mulberry Buildings is dead."
"What!" cried Doctor Brink. "Poor old Mrs. Thacker? I'm sorry. She
was a nice old thing."
"Yes," assented Doctor Tewksbury, "an interesting old hag--such marked
symptoms. I wish I'd exhibited bromide."
"It wouldn't have made any difference," said Doctor Brink.
"Of course not," responded Doctor Tewksbury. "She was quite hopeless;
but still bromide was clearly indicated. Hullo--foot hurting?"
"Not--not more than usual," answered Doctor Brink. "My back was
tickling. That's all. Any news?"
"Nothin' particular," replied the locum, "exceptin' a woman in Burbidge
Street. Mrs. Groat, I think the name is. Had a sort of row with her.
It's the daughter's case really--a confinement; but when I got there the
old cow came to the door and she wouldn't let me in. Said her daughter
had engaged with you, and she didn't want no blasted schoolboys. She
was rather offensive."
"After all," said Doctor Brink, rising clumsily to his feet and holding
hard to all of us, "she _did_ engage with me. It's a damnable nuisance;
but I'll have to go round."
"Oh, rot," cried the locum. "Let the old fool rip."
"Wait till Beaver catches you, that's all," observed his daughter.
"You _are_ a fool, Brink," said I.
"She's been round here twice already, while you were out, Tewksbury,"
continued Doctor Brink. "All the family's been here, in fact; they're
much excited and very drunk. I expect they've been working on the
patient, and unless we do something she'll get into a frenzy and croak.
I shall have to go. Where's my damned hat?"
"Now look here, Fatty," expostulated James, "you simply aren't going to
be _allowed_ to go. You----"
"Old girl," said the doctor quietly, "subside. I'm going."
So saying, the doctor grasped my shoulder in a grip that was not all of
friendship. "You come the other side," he said to James. "Tewksbury, you
mind the shop. Now we're off. Steady, now. Slowly. That's good.
Steady, now. Steady. Good again. Oh, Kreisler!"
It was an exciting journey across the sitting-room, and that down the
stairway even more so. And when at last we gained the street, the bulk
of the journey lay before us. We accomplished it somehow--it lasted
less than a year, at any rate--and when we had at last arrived at the
interesting residence of Mrs. Groat, and had deposited the doctor on its
doorstep, the lady herself came out to greet us.
"'Ow," she said, "yuv come at last, ye bleedin' makeshift!"
We pushed him inside, and the door was closed behind him, and we walked
about and waited. When, nearly an hour later, the remaining fragments
of my rash friend were restored to us, Mrs. Groat came after them and
made further speech.
"Ye spiteful old crow," she cried. "Ye didn't 'arf make 'er 'oller, did
ye? I'll show ye spite. I'll pay ye out for bein' ser spiteful.
Jes'you see. I'll pay ye out."
Which she did. For when, after making the homeward journey in such a
fashion as to cause amazement and amusement to the whole neighbourhood,
we did arrive at the doctor's own house, it was to find that a medicine
bottle had found its billet on the consulting-room floor by way of the
consulting-room window.
Tewksbury came down and helped us to carry the doctor up. And when we
had flopped our burden on to a couch, and Tewksbury had leisure for
reflection, he said--
"You will never convince me that this was all produced by burgundy."
*XXX*
*DIALOGUE WITH A BRIDE*
She was rather a juvenile sort of bride: so much so, in fact, that a
civilised inquirer might have supposed the baby on her breast and the
ring upon her finger to be mere playthings.
It was to be gathered, from her opening statement, that she was inured
to the married state, and that it held no terror for her.
"If 'e comes it over me," she explained, "I gives 'im a shove in the
marf."
She was an attractive child--rather freckled and very shrill; but having
cheerful eyes.
"What you recommend me to do about Mine, Doctor? 'E's queer."
DOCTOR BRINK: How queer?
THE BRIDE: Queer in 'is 'ead. Won't talk to nobody. Won't eat. 'E's
learnin isself to write short'and.
DOCTOR BRINK: But I think that's rather sensible.
THE BRIDE: More sensible if he was to bring 'ome some money. 'E's a
chair-packer's labourer. What's the good o' short'and to a
chair-packer's labourer?
DOCTOR BRINK: Perhaps he has ambitions.
THE BRIDE (_gloomily_): Not 'im. 'E's got the sulks. If you go an'
give it a big name like that, 'e'll never get better. I ain't even let
'im know I've come to you--'e's ser easy encouraged. What 'e wants is a
dose o' your pale yaller--even my ole gran'ma can't drink that, and
she's been takin' medsin since _so_ 'igh. That's what 'e wants: a dose
o' your pale yaller and a flip be'ind the ear.
DOCTOR BRINK: How old is your husband?
THE BRIDE: Old enough to do some work. 'E'll be eighteen in March.
DOCTOR BRINK: He's out of employment, then?
THE BRIDE (_stiffly_): Well, 'e ain't out of employment, on'y 'e don't
go to work. There ain't no call for 'im to go, not unless 'e wants to.
We're independent.
DOCTOR BRINK: Indeed?
THE WIFE: Yus. We've 'ad some luck, through the misfortune of losin'
'is father. There's a matter of two 'underd pound at the lawyer's, and
more to come, they say.
DOCTOR BRINK: It's a pity he can't find some work to do. Two hundred
pounds won't last for ever, you know.
THE WIFE: There ain't no call for 'im to look for work. When the money
comes we're goin' inter business.
DOCTOR BRINK: Oh! What sort of business?
THE WIFE: The 'ardware, Doctor: joiners' bits and carpenters' tools, and
knives and 'and-saws. It's bin a fancy of 'is'n since boy'ood up.
That's the meaning of this short'and. 'E's educatin' 'isself for the
position.
DOCTOR BRINK: Well, of course, an ironmonger isn't bound to know
shorthand; but----
THE WIFE: Not ironmongery, Doctor--the 'ardware: fine edge tools and
joiners' necessaries, and so forth.
DOCTOR BRINK: But why object to this shorthand? After all, it keeps him
out of mischief.
THE WIFE: It ain't the short'and I object to. It's him. Forever at
home: forever makin' his scratches. Forever lookin' sulky and cleanin'
'is nails. Never a word to say to me, nor so much as a look for the
child. 'E was 'armless enough when I married 'im. Full of life 'e was in
them days. Many's the 'idin' 'e's give me!
DOCTOR BRINK: Cheer up! He'll get lively again one of these days, and
give you another hiding. Even shorthand ceases to amuse people after a
time.
THE WIFE: Short'and don't amuse 'im. It on'y makes 'im stupid. 'E don't
wanter learn it, not reely: 'is 'ead ain't good enough for learnin'. 'E
likes to make me wild, that's all. As for hidin's, it's _'im_ what gets
the 'iding now: I don't believe in a girl takin' any o' that when you're
married. Walkin' out it's different. Besides, I earned it then. I was
a devil arter the boys in them days.
DOCTOR BRINK: Oh, well: you were only a young thing then, of course....
About this husband of yours; what is it you want me to do? I can't cure
shorthand, you know.
THE WIFE: Well, Doctor, I don't see's there's anything you _can_ do,
reely. Only, I wish 'e'd go back to the chair-packin'. 'Ome ain't 'ome
with your man always in it. And 'e's ser sulky and ser pertickler. 'E
says we gotter go to church now that we've retired from work. We're
goin' ter have our shop front painted red.
DOCTOR BRINK: I always look upon red as one of our leading colours. As
you say, there is really nothing which I can do. Anyhow, we've had a
useful little chat.
THE WIFE: I like a little chat. It's a thing I don't seem to get very
orfen, nowadays. Me and my mother, we don't know each other. She says
we killed 'is father. She says I don't manage my baby.
DOCTOR BRINK: I shouldn't argue with him. He'll get used to this money
in time, and then he'll be as noisy as ever again.
THE WIFE: Argue with 'im? Me? I don't argue with 'im. When I got
anythink to say to 'im, 'e gets it aside o' the 'ead. I don't care,
even if we 'ave retired from work. I go on the same now as what I did
before; and so I shall when we've started the 'ardware. Sometimes I
wish this misfortune to 'is father 'ad never 'appened. I liked 'im
better in the chair-packin' days. I didn't see ser much of 'im. 'E
wasn't ser pertickler. 'E took a pleasure in his tea them days.
Sometimes he useder catch 'old of the kid.... And sometimes he useder
lark about with me.... I liked the look of 'im them days. Sometimes, I
wish we wasn't rich.
*XXXI*
*AN INTERLUDE*
One result of my acquaintanceship with Doctor Brink is not entirely
pleasant. I have developed a sort of interest in poor people.
I am always lighting, in odd corners, upon what I call "Brink cases."
Such experiences pursue me even into respectable places. I bumped into
one, lately, within a stone's throw of the Houses of Parliament, to
which place I was bound at midnight.
The clouds were showing heavy and black upon a moonlit sky as I turned
on to the Thames Embankment by Hungerford Bridge, so that I shivered
extensively. These September nights, at best, do not add much to the
pleasures of a promenade. But this night was especially unconducive to
philosophic loitering. There was wind, and that constant, dull
foreshadowing of rain which is worse than a deluge. There were those
hurrying, hump-backed clouds, and their indefinite reflection upon the
greasy surface of the Thames. And the clock struck twelve, and a
policeman by my elbow spat and swore. And some vessel far up stream
gave harrowing expression to its feelings by means of that dismal
instrument which is humorously called a syren. Like the mysterious
stranger in the story books, I drew my travelling cloak around me, and
shuddered at the windy vastness of it all.
And then I fell to smiling. For away yonder, in the mirk, figures were
moving and bobbing, and, by all the saints that care for vagrants, it
seemed to me that their movements suggested mirth.
"These must be weird people," thought I to myself, as I went towards
them, "who can find anything to laugh at in this place?" As I drew
close up to them their figures stood out more clearly against the great
wall of the Embankment; and I saw that the prime cause of this apparent
joyfulness was a girl--a girl who was very young, and rather graceful.
She wore an old straw hat and a heavy shawl, after the manner of her
kind, and one end of the shawl was much longer than the other, and was
caught up into a bundle beneath her arm. So that I guessed her to be
carrying a baby.
One of her companions was a middle-aged man of round and rather stupid
build. As I came up he was moving slowly from one foot to the other,
and wagging his head. He wore a ragged overcoat, which was buttoned to
his ears, and he was waving an arm about in a manner which appeared to
be admonitory.
The group was completed by a second man, younger than the other, and
taller. He was holding a hand to his face, which the girl had evidently
buffeted. The young fellow was saying something which I could not catch
in a plaintive voice, and the girl--jocund creature--was leaning against
the wall, swaying and shaking with silent laughter.
That mournful syren still jarred upon one's ears, and set a cog-wheel
running up one's backbone; the dark clouds jostled each other as before,
and were reflected in the oily sludge beneath them; the wind blew from
every quarter at once, and the fallen leaves that lay upon the footway
rustled in it like a shroud. And this girl leaned up against a pillar
and shook herself with laughter.
Then I went closer still and perceived my folly. The girl was not
laughing at all. That which I had supposed to be mirth was really its
opposite. The girl was _crying_--crying silently and effectively, and
without ostentation. When feminine lamentations are conducted with this
sort of restraint there is usually a reason for them.
The stupid man spoke to the girl. "Why don't you take 'eed to what 'Erb
says?" he demanded. "Why dontchew go 'ome? There's sense in what 'Erb
says."
And then the young man spoke, saying, "That's right, ole Emma. Come
along 'ome, ole Emma."
The girl crept closer to the wall, flattened herself against it, as if
she sought protection there. "I--I wown't gow 'owm," she said, between
the sobs. "I wown't move from 'ere, I wown't, till it's nine o'clock.
The gentleman said, 'Come back at nine o'clock.' 'Come back at nine
o'clock,' he said. You 'eard what 'e said, 'Erb. I wown't move from
'ere, I wown't."
'Erb went closer to her. They were all so occupied with this discussion
that I am sure my presence was not observed. It was as though I wore
some mantle of invisibility. I could have danced a hornpipe, I believe,
without attracting notice.... "What's the good of talkin' like that?"
said 'Erb to the girl. "Come along 'ome, Emma."
"I wown't move a _step_ from 'ere, I wown't," responded Emma. "You 'ear
what I say? I wown't move, I tell you. The gentleman said, 'Come back
at nine o'clock,' an' at nine o'clock I'm goin' back--to see my baby.
"... If you _was_ a man you'd take me over _now_"--she pointed, vaguely,
in the direction of Charing Cross Hospital--"you'd take me back and
fight 'em, you would, till they let us in. What they want to turn us
out till mornin' for?
"I wanter see my baby, I do. My baby'll die afore it's morning.
"'Come back at nine,' the gentleman said; and all its pore arm turned
stiff, an' white, an' swollen. What you wanter move that lamp for, you
fool? Why did you open the door? Did you 'ear 'im 'oller? Oh, Christ!
did you 'ear 'im 'oller? We'll lose 'im, 'Erb: my Gawd! we'll lose 'im.
Did you 'ear what the gentleman said? 'Come back at nine to-morrow
mornin',' 'e said. What'd 'e want to turn us out for, the swine? What
you want to go 'owm for? My baby's _there_, you ape: over there, with
the nurse an' the gentleman. Think I'd go 'owm wiv the likes o' _you_
an' leave 'im? What you wanter move that lamp for? Did you see it
runnin' all over 'im, an' 'im 'ollerin', an' cuttin' 'is feet in the
glass of the chimbly?
"Did you--did you? Go away, I tell you. I wown't move, I tell you. The
gentleman said, 'Come back at nine.' What you wanter worry me for?
What you wanter stop for? I want my baby--I--I--you makeshift, you, I
_'ate_ you."
And the young man twisted his cap between his fingers, and drew a little
closer to her, and said, "Come along 'ome."
"Yus, go along 'ome," supplemented the stupid man. "You can't stop out
'ere all night. And what's the good o' worryin'? People's got to pay
for bein' married an' that in _this_ world. It might be worse, you
know, young Emma----"
"Ah!" interpolated the younger man. "It might be worse, you know, ole
Emma!"
"What is it, after all," pursued his stout companion, "what is it, after
all, to bury a baby? I remember well when we was nailin' up our Number
Three----"
The stout man's reminiscences ended suddenly. It was the fist of the
younger man which ended them. "Chew that, ye one-eyed wind-bag,"
observed its owner.
Then, drawing Emma gently from the wall, he placed his arm about her,
and whispered something in a voice which aspired clumsily to be hopeful.
Now that the girl was facing me, I could see that she did not carry a
child, as I had at first supposed. It was merely an end of shawl which
she carried--a rude sort of nest or pocket, pressed close to her bosom,
as if in waiting for some tender burden.
"Come along 'ome, ole girl," the young man urged. "What's the use o'
dawdlin'?"
"Go away!" replied the woman. "Leave a girl in peace, can't you? I'm
waitin' for my baby. I'm waitin' for nine o'clock, like the gentleman
said.... I wonder if 'e's sleepin'? I wonder if they've 'urt 'im? ...
I wonder if he's dead?"
"Ain't you comin' 'ome?" pleaded the man.
"Ain't you goin' away?" the woman answered. "What's the good o'
pesterin'? Can't you 'ear what I tell you? Do you wanter send me
mad--fussin' an' pesterin'?
"There's a clock; one, now, an' the gentleman said nine."
"That was 'arpas' twelve struck then," observed the stout man.
"And the gentleman said nine," sighed the girl.
"Think e'll 'ave 'is mind back be the mornin', 'Erb? 'E never knowed
nothin' when we left; never knowed nothin' when I carried 'im out from
'ome. Did you see 'ow fast 'is teeth was? Did---- The gentleman said,
'Don't worry.' Must be a fool. What did you wanter move the lamp for?"
"Table was so full, an' the cloth was draggin'. Anyone might 'a'
stepped on it. I never meant no 'arm, ole Emma."
"Bin all right if the door was shut. Might be nursin' 'im now, 'Erb, in
yere overcoat, 'stead of 'im---- Did you see ow drored out 'is fingers
was when the gentleman come to look? 'Ow long before nine? Think
they'd let us in before? It's all through that door bein' open. That
curtain it---- Gawd's Truth, 'Erb, it was the _noo_ curtain what I put
up yesterday. It was _my_ curtain. _I_ done it, I killed my baby."
"'_E_ ain't killed," asserted the fat man. "Be as right as I am in a
twel'month."
"I put up that curtain to show off; that's all I put it up for. And it
blew on to the lamp, an' it--it--Gawd blind me, I've killed my baby."
"That's a lie!" shouted the man. "Didn't I leave the door open? Didn't
I shove the dam thing right under the curtain? Begod, I did. Don't
tell lies to yeself, ole Emma. It was me as done it. It was me as burnt
that little beggar's arm. Wish to Gawd I'd burnt me eyes out first."
"Go' bless my soul," observed the stupid man, "what _is_ the use of
quarrellin' over trifles? Whatever does it matter whether the lamp
moved the curtain or the curtain moved the lamp? Thing's done, ain't
it? Boy's arm's all charred up. Why argue? Take an' get a good night's
sleep. Ain't we all 'ad trouble? When my first went down----"
"I 'it 'im to-day," said the woman. "For eatin' coal, it was."
The man drew her hand into his, which was not more rough and shapeless.
"'E thought the world o' you, ole Emma," he observed.
"'Ow long to nine o'clock, 'Erb? 'Ow long afore they'll let us see 'im?
The gentleman said, 'Don't worry.' ... We was mad to leave 'is cradle
there."
"It's all so full in the room," replied 'Erb. "I was gointer move next
quarter. Allus next quarter, Gawd strike me! If we'd took that room we
was lookin' at Easter time, there was gas there an'--an'----"
"I _wanted_ to 'ave it," whined the woman.
"When," pursued her husband, "when I was puttin' them rockers on the
sugar-box, I _did_ say as we'd 'ave a 'ooded top, to finish it. But I
changed me mind. Devil take me! I changed me mind."
"It'd 'a' saved 'im, that would," observed the woman. "We'd 'a' found
'im sittin' up an' laughin' at the fireworks.... Remember that day when
the water come in?"
"R!" answered the man. "Rare tickled 'e was. Remembers it to this day.
I'll lay any money 'e was tryin' to tell me about it when we was in the
park o' Sunday. 'E----"
"Oh, Christ! my baby," cried the woman; and she lay sobbing in his arms.
He led her to a seat, and she cried silently upon his shoulder for a
long, long while. When she next spoke it was to wonder about the time.
"Is it _very_ long to nine o'clock?" she inquired. And the man said,
"Not so very. You lie still, ole Emma: you're all right; you lie
still."
Then Emma remembered that by moving the tin trunk which stood by the
wash-stand to an empty niche beneath the table, a place of security
might have been provided for that sugar-box. And they discussed all the
other might-have-beens: and his beauty, and cheerfulness, and the
surprising precocity of his speech. She trembled, and sobbed and
sobbed, and her husband swore. They talked about all the other
might-have-beens again; and the stupid man faced them, scratching his
head, and saying:
"What _is_ the use of all this argument?"
After which the constabulary arrived, and flashed lamps upon them; and
they rose heavily, and moved away.
But I found them, presently, upon another seat. Emma's blue-white face
was upon her husband's shoulder, and her lips were tightly clenched as
she spoke to him. "'Ow long we got to wait till nine o'clock?" she
asked.
"Not so long," replied the man.... "You lie still, ole Emma."
She sighed, very slowly. And I noticed that a hummock of shawl was
caught up close beneath her arm.
*XXXII*
*LOW FINANCE*
He was a self-complacent, ox-voiced man, and being clothed on with his
Sunday blacks, he looked objectionable. He surged into Dr. Brink's
consulting-room all frothy and foamy with fellowship. "Evenin', Doc.,"
he gurgled. '"Ow's yeself?"
"Let me see your tongue?" said the doctor, who was tired and
absent-minded. This was the ninety-seventh tongue which he had clamoured
for that day: a fact which perhaps accounted for the absence from his
manner of that sympathetic and anecdotal touch which distinguishes those
learned men who follow the reputable or credit branch of his profession.
"It ain't about meself I've come, ole man," explained the visitor.
"Leastways," he added, with an air as of scrupulous exactitude, "it
ain't about me present self. I come to thank you for all your goodness
to me during my accident."
The doctor responded with a wondering stare.
"I come to thank you for all your goodness to me, Doc.," repeated the
man. "And," he added, as one giving utterance to a careless
afterthought, "to see about my little bill."
"When did I attend you?" demanded the doctor.
"When did you attend me?" repeated the patient reproachfully. "Why, you
attended me twice. I am that serious driving accident what you was
called in to look at four weeks ago. And I bin round to see you once
since then."
"Serious driving accident," mused the doctor. Then--with an acid
smile--"I think I remember now. The accident suddenly showed itself in
your shoulder, didn't it, five days after the occurrence? And I
couldn't find the place, could I? Not even a bruise."
"It was very painful, Doctor," explained the invalid; "one of them
inward bruises. They do say as that's the worst sort o' damage as kin
'appen to a man, getting a inward bruise, same's what I did. I bin
layed up fower weeks 'long o' that accident."
"And it took five days to mature. Ever heard of a disease called
'afterthought'?"
"Can't say rightly as I 'ave," admitted the sufferer.
"It is a curious sort of complaint," the doctor explained; "attacks a
man very often in cases like this. Quite small things aggravate it,
too; talkative friends, for example."
"Will you make the bill out, Doctor?" requested the victim of this
strange ailment.
"No need for a bill, is there?" said the doctor. "I can tell you what
you owe me out of hand. One visit to your house, one consultation here:
total, eighteenpence."
"I'd prefer a proper invoice, Doctor," admitted the maimed one. "And
look 'ere, ole man, make it out fur a sovereign, will ye? I ... I want
to show it to my firm."
"With pleasure," said the doctor. "Have you brought the sovereign with
you?"
"Eh?" snapped the man.
"I asked if you had brought the sovereign," repeated the doctor. "If
your firm is prepared to pay me a sovereign for my services to you, I
shall, of course, be delighted to make out a bill for that amount."
"But you on'y seed me twice," protested the visitor.
"That is what I wish to point out. My proper fees amount to eighteen
pence. But if you want to pay me a p----"
"I _don't_ wanter to pay you a pound," bellowed the petitioner angrily.
"Nothing so ridiculous."
"In that case," responded the doctor, "let us say no more about the
bill."
"Do you call yeself a genelman?" demanded this martyred soul, with a
choke in his voice. "Do you call yeself a genelman to stop a pore
drayman from earnin' his honest compensation? 'Ow'm I goin' on for
compensation?"
"Compensation for what?" inquired the doctor.
"Fur me accident," replied the man. "I bin laid up fower weeks."
"One day of which," the doctor pointed out, "you spent in bed. Did they
stop your wages?"
"Well, no," admitted the martyr. "They paid me me wages all right. But
I ain't drored nothink fur me accident."
"You drew a very comfortable holiday, at any rate," suggested the
doctor. "A four weeks' rest cure on full wages. And that shoulder, you
know, it was not what one could call a permanent injury: it hardly
amounted to disablement. Do you think so?"
"Words," stated the sufferer, "cannot describe the agonies what I bin
through."
"You surprise me," murmured Dr. Brink. "Anyhow, you've been strong
enough to do a lot of standing about outside the 'African Chief.'"
"What if I 'ave?" submitted the injured man. "Ain't I still entitled to
compensation fur my accident?"
"It seems to me you've had it," argued the doctor.
"That I ain't," asserted the indignant claimant; "not a blighted
'a'penny."
"Four weeks' rest, full pay," recited the doctor, with an air of
monotony.
"Wiv me shoulder-blade all to Bucklesbury," added the claimant. "And
not a brazen farthing fur me accident. I 'ad the corpuscular accident
all right, I suppose? Ye don't deny it, do ye?"
"By no means," exclaimed the doctor. "Didn't I myself attend you for a
unique complaint in the shoulder-blade?"
"Very well, then," pursued the invalid, somewhat mollified by this
admission. "In that case I demand my rights. I demand the rights of a
honest workin' man. I ask for compensation for my accident, same's what
I'm entitled to accordin' to lor. Will you write out that invoice fur
me?"
"Certainly: for the exact amount which you may care to pay me."
"Do you call yeself a man?" demanded the visitor, with heightened
colour. "What the scarlet letter do ye reckon I engaged ye for? Think
I wanted ye for the sake of yere filthy physic? Ain't ye got no 'eart?
Make out the invoice like a fair-minded man. Never tell me as you'd
'ave the 'eart to rob a pore man of 'is money.... They've refused to
give me compensation fur my accident, and now 'ere's you--a genelman
born, as oughta be above sich actions--you're gointer rob a pore man of
'is doctor's bill.... Besides, I _tole_ 'em that I owed a sovereign to
the doctor, and they tells me to produce the invoice.... What am I to
tell my firm?"
"Tell them what you like," replied the doctor. "I certainly shall give
you no receipt for money which I haven't had."
"Then 'ow do I go on?" queried the visitor.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
'"Ow'm I goin' on fur compensation--fur my accident?"
The doctor repeated his shrug. "It seems to me," he said, "that your
firm has treated you well. You don't know much, you know."
"I may be a fool," admitted the afflicted one, "but I know my rights. I
oughter be paid some compensation fur me accident.... You won't do
nothing to 'elp me, then?"
"I can't," replied the doctor. "What you want is a new head."
"Do I?" retorted the caller, flourishing his wounded arm. "That's the
very thing as _you'll_ be needin', ole sport, if ever I meets you
outside. Call yeself a man? _I_ call you a swindlin' 'pothecary. I
tell you one thing, Mister Whatsitname. Whenever I 'as another
haccident, I takes it to the bloomin' 'orspital. I do know _that_ much.
See?"
*XXXIII*
*THE MOTHERS' MEETING*
The morning callers at Dr. Brink's dispensary are all of them women or
little children. You may suppose that the waiting-room wears then a
strange and wistful air, for the men being absent, with their hoarse,
funereal pleasantries, and the shuffling young boys being absent too,
and the girls likewise, having carried their titters and squeaks to the
factory, there is not much to amuse folk in the waiting-room.
You cannot expect a married woman to be very cheerful at the best of
times, and when there is the place to tidy and the rent man expected,
and the children will soon be coming home for their slabs and what not,
and you have slipped out just for half a tick to get that dizzy feeling
seen to, it is more than usually dull to be sat in a row with twenty
other females, similarly cursed--some of them having babies at their
breasts or little squalling things what hold fast to their skirts, and
the place that stuffy and all, and a stink of iodine coming out of the
doctor's room. Taking one consideration with another, it is not to be
wondered at that the morning patients do not wear that air of curiosity
and pleasure which a visit to the doctor should properly occasion.
The morning patients have an absent-minded look--a dull, foreboding
look, as of people who are too busy really to enjoy themselves. Some of
them, also, are accompanied by their button-holes or other objects of
light and profitable home employment, at which they work with assiduity
whilst waiting for the doctor's call. Others, upon the other hand,
bring peppermint drops. One lady has brought some literature--the
outward wrapper of an ancient issue of a paper called _The Pilot_. So
there they loll, all silent, many of them yawning--out of rudeness, or
boredom, or fatigue, or something, one supposes.
If you sit upon the gas-stove, you can watch them all as they come into
the consulting-room. You can watch, for instance, the experienced
matron, who enters with the baby that _won't_ get well, and dumps it
down, in a business-like manner, upon the doctor's table.
"There you are," she says in the manner of one who has successfully
completed a conjuring trick, "look at that tongue. Did _ever_ you see
sich a thrush?"
"M'yes!" admits the doctor. "It's pretty bad. I'll give you a powder
and some syrup."
"Powder? Syrup?" echoes the matron. "H'm! Pity you can't give 'im a
corfin. That's the on'y treatment what'll give any peace to _this_ pore
little swine. What mercy, _I_ say, is there in letting a thing like
this live on? Look at it."
When, to your great relief, the experienced matron goes away, you will
be very lucky if you do not wish her back again, for it is ten to one
that she will be followed by an apprentice to the trade, a poor wild
thing whose senseless, shiftless, screaming mother-agony will hurt you
ever so much more than the grim philosophy of the veteran.
"It seems to grip 'im, Doctor," the apprentice will say, "and throw 'im
down, pore lamb, an' wrestle with 'im, Doctor, same's there was a
fish-bone in 'is little throat, and 'im so weak, 'e don't have strength
enough to 'oller, and 'im so blue and mottled, Doctor, and
strangled-looking in the face, and the powder, that ain't doin' 'im no
good. The Irishwoman down below, she dreamt she seed 'im in a shroud,
and, Doctor, I see meself as 'e gets thinner, and I believe me milk 'as
got some poison in it, along of some oysters what I eat one Sunday, and
so I see 'im gettin' thinner, Doctor, and there's the strangled look
a-comin' _now_! Won't you give 'im somethink, Doctor? What did you say I
was to take 'im to the breast for? I tell you my milk 'as got the
microbes in it. Oh, Christ! what can a woman _do_? And Mine he comes
'ome late and stands and swears at me wiv no more feelin' than a 'og.
Me gran'father Murphy's eyes 'e's got. There, then, sonny; there, then.
What'll you do for 'im, Doctor? I seed a black cat on our winder-sill
last night. My Gawd!--see 'ow it grips 'im!"
By the time you feel disposed to come back to the gas-stove again it
will be seen that the apprentice mother has given place to a grandmamma,
who has looked in, as a friend, to mention that much gossip is arising
in consequence of the extreme youth of Dr. Brink's apothecary.
Far be it from her--Elizabeth Tebbings--to be one as would carry idle
tales or utter idle plaint, but the fact remained and could be very
solemnly attested by many honest witnesses from Mulberry Buildings that
the medicine which she, Elizabeth Tebbings, had last Tuesday week
received from the apothecary possessed a strange, unusual, and
forbidding flavour--a nasty-nice sort of flavour which gave you shivers
down your back.
"Far be it from me," protested Mrs. Tebbings, "to cast no slur,
especially when the parints of the party has been friends and neighbours
along with anybody--good neighbours, too--'is father especially being
the 'andsomest man in the Customs service--but the truth is the truth
even though a young man's parints _is_ beknown to you, and to tell you
the truth of _this_ affair, Doctor, young Wilfered Crage 'e _is_
young--a mere boy, Doctor, if you understand my meanin'. And, unwilling
as I am, 'avin' come to a motherly time of life, for to kerry tales,
still I must say--speaking friendly, mind you, Doctor--that the medicine
_did_ taste ugly. Me brother Joseph tells me there was stricknyne in
it."
The doctor, having closely examined the water-tap in Wilfered's official
laboratory, is heard to assure Mrs. Tebbings that her fears of
strychnine poisoning are groundless, and that lady goes out with her
confidence partially restored. "At the same time," she insists from the
threshold, "the boy _is_ young. And you got to remember that some of
your patients _'ave_ died sudden, Doctor. Look at that girl wiv 'earts
disease what lived in our basement!"
The next woman to enter has come to "engage." "I expect about the first
week in September," she says. "An' if you please I'd like to pay a
couple o' shillin' orf me ticket now. An', if you please, Doctor, will
you give me the ticket with the two shillin' wrote orf? On'y will you
give me another ticket, too, without nothink wrote orf? I want one so's
I kin show it to me 'usband, see, Doctor? 'Cause if 'e see as I bin
able to pay orf any, 'e'll say as I kin pay the lot orf, and I want to
git a little 'elp from 'im, Doctor, so's to 'elp me over it all."
This mild and unreproachful statement will probably provide you with a
subject of thought. But your attention is diverted from that theme by
the sudden appearance of one more mother--a hearty, stalwart, red-faced
mother, with an ample bosom.
This mother produces from behind the door a hearty, stalwart, red-faced
boy. "'Is teef is rotten, Doctor," she explains. "I brought 'im round
to 'ave 'em out. There's three wants coming out. They're all the same
side. See 'em?"
"I see them," replies the doctor. "But three teeth at--er--one sitting!
Isn't that _rather_ a tall order? Don't you think, perhaps, now, that
we'd better take out only two to-day and leave the other one for
treatment later on?"
The mother grins extensively, shaking her jolly head.
"Never mind, Doctor," she says, "let's 'ave 'em all out. It's on'y
eighteenpence."
*XXXIV*
*THE WOES OF WILFERED*
Wilfered, the 'Pothecary, hath a sorrow, or rather two sorrows, if not
more than that.
Some of these sorrows have reference to his master's interests; and it
was in the capacity of Doctor Brink's familiar friend that I was
privileged to learn some details of Wilfered's private and professional
afflictions.
We were in the dispensary, Wilfered having just explained that there
were limits to the things which even he could stand; that the affections
of a man and a 'Pothecary could be toyed with once too often, when a
little maid came in. She was quite a little maid--some four to five
spans high--the top of her dishevelled head being scarcely on a level
with the ledge of Wilfered's peep-hole--that mysterious recess through
which he views and governs the multitude within the doctor's
waiting-room. The little maiden, having rapped authoritatively upon the
wainscoting, held up an arm with a penny at the end of it, and a face
enamelled over with soot and treacle. Said this client, speaking
quickly--
"Penny powder for a baby six months owld."
Wilfered's expression of general discontent changed to one of immediate
and particular disgust. "What do you say?" he demanded of the client.
"Please," murmured that lady, with the air of one triumphantly conscious
of that which was expected of her.
Wilfered solemnly shook his head. "Never mind about yere manners," said
Wilfered. "What d'ye want?"
"Penny powder for a baby six months owld," repeated the child.
Wilfered turned from the client to me, a look as of despair upon his
face.
"This is the sorter thing you gotter contend against," he complained.
Then addressing himself once more to the child, he uttered a sort of
formula which he keeps for these emergencies--
"We don't sell powders yere. If you wanter powder, go to the chimmis."
The infant looked at him hopelessly. "Mover told me to come yere," she
said.
"Under the circumstances," responded Wilfered, uttering another formula,
"we will let you 'ave the powder. We won't sell it. We'll _give_ it
you. Nex' time, go to the chimmis."
"That's the sorter thing you gotter contend against," said Wilfered
again, as the client departed.
He was about to repeat this observation for the third time, when his
thoughts were distracted by the entry of another juvenile client--an
older and taller girl than the last, though hardly a cleaner one.
"Penny soothin' powder for a baby eight months owld," demanded the
new-comer. She was the possessor of a wide, immovable smile.
Wilfered bestowed another of his speaking glances upon your servant.
And to the client he repeated his formula: "We don't sell powders yere,
my gal. If you wanter powder, go to the chimmis."
The lady listened to this statement with an attentive air. Then she
spoke again, saying, "Penny soothin' powder for a baby eight months
owld."
"We don't sell powders, I tell you," responded Wilfered.
"No," said the girl, "but you give 'em."
Wilfered extended his head a further inch through the peep-hole. His
nose and that of the client almost touched each other.
"This is a noo game, ain't it?" demanded Wilfered.
"What next? 'Cause we 'appen to give you a powder once, out of our
generosity, seem to think you on'y got to come in yere to get one on the
nod atenny minnit. Go to the chimmis."
"Ma towld me to come yere," protested the client.
"Then," said Wilfered, "you go 'ome an' tell yere Ma as I refuse to
serve ye. Seem to take us for a 'firmary. We don't sell powders, nor
we don't give 'em--except first time to a reg'lar customer what does not
know our rules. And if we was to sell powders, it wouldn't be for a
penny, me gel.
"These powders," continued the loyal but shameless 'Pothecary, "are made
up outer the very best drugs. They cost _us_ frippence. You go 'ome an'
tell yere mother _that_."
The lady went home, to be followed, in the course of nature--this being,
as it were, "the children's hour"--by another lady, younger and smaller
than any of her predecessors, demanding "A penny powder for----"
"'Oose baby?" demanded Wilfered.
"Baby four months old," replied the messenger.
"_'Oose_ baby?" repeated Wilfered.
"My baby," said the child.
"You bin 'ere afore about your baby?" inquired the 'Pothecary.
"No," said the messenger.
"Oh," mused Wilfered. "What name?"
"'Ilder," said the messenger.
"Mother's name, I mean," explained Wilfered.
"Mrs. Bates, Mulberry Street," said Mrs. Bates's emissary.
And Wilfered repeated his formula: "Tell yere mother as we'll _give_ 'er
the powder this once, but nex' time you must send to the chimmis. We
don't sell powders yere."
Mrs. Bates's daughter, having received her powder, and being as yet
without a proper understanding, deposited the penny with which she had
been entrusted upon the ledge of Wilfered's peep-hole, and bolted from
the waiting-room.
Wilfered gazed upon this coin with an air of indecision. Finally, he
picked it up (between a finger and thumb) and flung it into the till.
His actions said plainer than words that he possessed a professional
sentiment which was outraged at the thought of accepting this tainted
money.
And then--for events move quickly in Bovingdon Street--who should come
bouncing in again but the big girl whom he had previously dismissed--she
of the immovable smile.
"Penny soothin' powder for a baby eight months owld," said the big girl.
Wilfered was at first unable to speak; but when he did so, it was with
point and emphasis.
"I suppose," he said, with scorn, at the end of his address, "as you kin
understand plain English? We _down't sell powders_. And if we did, we
couldn't sell 'em for a penny. These powders cost _us_ frippence. Did
ye tell yere mother that?"
"Yus," responded the girl, "but mother says she can't 'elp _your_
troubles."
Wilfered held on to the pill-tub and looked wildly about him. Then,
with a deep-drawn sigh, he held out a powder and took the penny.
"What is the use o' arguin?" he demanded of your servant. "Look what
you got to contend against."
*XXXV*
*STILL MORE OF PRUDENCE*
Baffin came bouncing in one morning and bounced me off the gas-stove.
His hair was ruffled and his face was flushed and his eyes were flashing
sparks.
"My God!" he cried. "I--I've made a weird, a wild, a terrible
discovery. Good God, who would have thought it! That child, mind you,
that imbecile. 'God, sir, if this were a humane and Christian country,
I should be allowed to call the damned beast out and carve patterns on
him."
"You are referring to----"
"Prudence--Prudence," responded Baffin, with agitation. "She HAS TOLD
ME ALL. Come in and see her."
Prudence had flung herself down upon a grimy sugar-box, and lay there,
still and bruised and broken. There was an awful quiet in the room.
Baffin resumed his remarks in reference to the subject of damned beasts.
I hushed him with a grave, paternal glance.
"Think of poor Prudence," I said.
Prudence rose slowly to her feet. She thrust back the hair from before
her eyes.
"Oh, my Gawd! Mr. Baffin," she said, "you do gow in for the funniest
talk ever! 'Ere--I say, when I was down there, do you know what I see?
I see as there is a crack in that sugar-box; I do believe that's where I
dropped that picture powstcard what I lorst 'ere last sittin'.
"Oo-er, it will be all right if we can find it there, wown't it, now? I
'ave missed that card, I can't tell you! 'Cos my mother give me that
card, an' I love everythink what my mother gives me. You dunnow _what_
a good mother I got, Mr. Baffin. She's working 'ard all day to bring me
up proper, she is, an' the place on 'er arm is _ever_ so bad still. If
on'y I could learn to sit still, I could earn a lot of menny to give to
my mother, couldn't I, Mr. Baffin? 'Cos you said so, didn't you, Mr.
Baffin?
"See if I don't learn to sit still; people that try can always succeed,
can't they? My mother often tells me that. Be a dear, an' move the box,
Mr. Baffin."
We moved the box, but the card was not there; and Prudence succumbed to
a fresh outbreak of tears, and had to be comforted with condensed milk,
which she relished in spoonfuls direct from the tin. We rescued this
stimulant from Prudence in time to avert the tragedy of an overdose; and
then she departed. "I got a friend waitin' for me," she said, "an' my
mother said I was to be 'ome early. An' this is my mother's ironin'
night.... 'Ere, Mr. Baffin--was you laughin' at me when I come over
funny on the box there? 'Cos I won't sit for anybody what laughs at me.
I'll go out charrin', an' spoil me 'ands, that's what I'll do. Don't
you think I could learn to do charrin' if I wanted to? I can learn a
lot if I try."
"Don't spoil your hands," said Baffin; "they are beautiful hands."
Baffin did not flatter her. Prudence's hands were as the hands of a
lute-player--slender and white and sensitive, flowing from wrists which
carried themselves subtly, like a fair swan's neck. Such hands, I
believe, may be produced by the simple process of being folded
gracefully for ten generations. We often wondered, Baffin and I, whence
Prudence derived those hands. That much-talked-of lady, Prudence's
mother, had never been presented to us; but--frail hands and a frail
spirit! Which of these was the mother's gift?
"Hee! hee!" giggled Prudence, as she spread the little hands before her,
"yew ain't 'arf a tease, are yew, Mr. Baffin? ... Funny 'ands fur
charrin', ain't they, though? ... May I flap your letter-box as I go
out? It don't 'arf rattle. Oo, I _em_ a silly girl, _I_ em! 'Ere, I
say--when I come to sit agen, shall I bring my mouth-organ, and show you
'ow I'm learnin' meself to play 'The Bluebells of Scotland'? An' you'll
look for my picture card, wown't you, 'cos my mother give it to me? And
please let me sit agen soon. Oy revoy."
When it became quite clear, from the silence of the letter-box flap,
that Prudence had wholly departed, Baffin sat himself wearily down and
groaned.
"What the deuce ought one to do?" he demanded, with great earnestness.
"This being your affair," I answered, "you will have to think out that
little problem for yourself. The circumstance of your living in a
Christian country will not ... prove helpful."
"Don't tell Brink," said Baffin. "He'll want to poison her."
* * * * *
Seven days later Prudence came bursting in Baffin's studio on a mission
of protest.
"'Ere, Mr. Baffin," she exclaimed, "what about this spyin'? I down't
like it at all, I down't, and my mother down't like it; an' will you
arst your friend, Mrs. Vesey, to mind 'er own business? Seems to take a
lot of interest in me an' my business, she does, an' I down't like it,
an' my mother down't like it, 'cos it is no business of 'ers to bother
about my business, an' I believe she's got a lotter funny ideas in 'er
'ead, an' I down't know what she means, an' I down't like 'er.
"What's she wanter come to our 'ouse for at all? She comes round in 'er
carriage, she does. Oo, you oughter see the funny cross-eyed coachman
what she's got! Oo, and she don't 'arf wear no rings, neether. An' my
mother says you sent 'er, cause she tole my mother so, and what does she
wanter come fussin' round _our_ place for--settin' the neighbours
talkin'? An', 'ere, I say, Mr. Baffin, she's gointer take me to the
London 'Ippodrome."
"You leave it to Mrs. Vesey," said Baffin subsequently. "_We_ can't
manage Prudence, but Mrs. Vesey can. _She'll_ fix up Prudence.
Consulted her lawyer yesterday.... Oh, they'll settle that nobleman all
right."
Not long after this conversation Prudence's visits to the studio were
temporarily suspended. Prudence was out of town. Mr. Baffin would
explain to inquiring spirits that she had taken it in her head to go on
tour as a chorus girl. "A cheap sort of holiday, don't you know!"
In due course Prudence returned to town.
Her first professional visit was paid to Baffin, and it pained me to
notice that her very first observation caused that gentleman to blush.
"I 'ave got some queer friends, I ave. What you think some saucy 'ound
'as done _now_? Sent along a _cradle_ to my 'ouse! Do you know 'oo it
was, Mr. Baffin? I bin away, you know--nursin' my sick uncle at
Ramsgate, you know--an' it come while I was down there. I on'y got back
from Yarmouth yesterday, an' the first thing I see was this joke. Silly
joke, wasn't it, Mr. Baffin? 'Cos Mrs. Vesey was at _our_ 'ouse.
"An', 'ere, I say, Mr. Baffin, my gran'pa died when I was nursin' him at
Margate, an' there's some money comin' to me, on'y it's goin' to be took
care of for me, so's I can dror a little every week. An' my mother's
makin' me a noo 'at.
"'Ere, an' I can't sit for you be the day any more, Mr. Baffin, 'cos my
mother's lonely, an'--an'--I don't like to leave my mother be 'erself
all day. I got to go home to my--my mother now; an' I can come at
eleven in the mornin', and go away to dinner, an' come back in the
afternoon and stay till teatime--see? On'y I can't stop later than
teatime, an' I can't stop all day, 'cos I don't like leavin' my mother,
an' I got to go back an'--an' 'ave a look at 'er, like--see? Oo-_er_, I
_am_ late, Mr. Baffin: I ought to 'ave been back to my mother 'arf a
hour ago. Oh, do let me go, Mr. Baffin! My--my mother might get very
ill if I didn't get back to her punctual."
"Lying little fathead!" observed Mr. Baffin later.
Prudence's faith in our simplicity remained unshaken. "Time you went
home to your mother now," Baffin would assert at fitting intervals. And
Prudence would answer, "Oo-er, yes; my mother 'll be waitin' for me. I
mustn't keep my mother waitin'!"
The value of her services grew less (if possible) at every sitting. Her
capacity for wriggling returned to her with unabated force: the giggles
came back, too, and the original fund of anecdote.
Mr. Baffin congratulated himself on these signs. "We'll keep up the
pretence at 'sitting' a _little_ longer," he said, "and then I'll deny
myself the luxury of her assistance for a month or two. We'll call it a
'cure' on Monday."
But when Monday came, I noticed at once certain evidences of a "relapse"
in Prudence. The tears had come back, and the sulks and the silence.
Even Baffin's reminder that mother's hour for being visited had arrived
did not seem to move her. "I'm an un'eppy gel, I am," said Prudence.
"I want to ask you something, Mr. Baffin."
"Yes, yes," said Baffin.
"I--I on'y wanted to arst you," Prudence was saying, "do--do you believe
in bookmakers?"
"What?" said Baffin.
Prudence repeated her inquiry.
"I--I don't believe in--in auctioneers," said Baffin, blinking.
"I know you down't," responded Prudence. "But I want to know your
opinion of bookmakers--_this time_."
*XXXVI*
*A BIRTHDAY PARTY*
I was sitting on the gas-stove in Dr. Brink's refectory when Mr. William
Dawkins entered the consulting-room. And having applied my eye to the
squint-hole so thoughtfully provided by Dr. Brink for the education of
his guests, I was able to view and rejoice in the arrival of Mr.
Dawkins.
That gentleman's "entrance," as they say in the Strand, was decidedly
impressive. He came in under the escort of three cronies, and he was
wearing a white waistcoat and a smile and a blood-stained head. He was
singing.
"Did you collect all this by the side of the Zuyder Zee?" inquired the
doctor, in his softest bedside voice.
The patient offered no reply to this question; but smiling, oh, so
happily, he continued to pour forth the fresh, glad notes of his
voluntary. The largest and dirtiest member of the escort, feeling,
evidently, that the circumstances demanded explanation, was accordingly
so kind as to offer it.
"This," he said, "is Bill Dawkins. Young Bill Dawkins, you know: 'im
what works at the coal-wharf."
The doctor bowed. "Bill is a hearty fellow," he said, "and his head has
been banged about damned awful, and you have not introduced me to him a
moment too soon. I shall have to stitch that forehead."
Mr. Dawkins received this information with his sunniest smile. "Don't
be shy, ole love," he said. "Bill don't fret, thank Gawd. My name is
Bill Dawkins. Thank Gawd fur that!"
"I shan't be shy," replied the doctor, with a reassuring smirk, as he
fumbled amongst a case of cutlery. "What have you been up to, by the
way?"
Mr. Dawkins, however, had relapsed into melody: and the only answer
which Dr. Brink received to his inquiry was the assurance that he was
Mr. Dawkins's Bluebell.
"What _has_ he been up to?" asked the doctor again, addressing himself
to the largest escort.
"Eh?" said that gentleman.
"I say," repeated the doctor, preparing for action, "that I'd like to
know what he's been up to?"
"'Oo been up to?" inquired the escort.
"William," said the doctor.
"'E ain't been up to nothing. This is young Bill Dawkins. '_E_ ain't
done no 'arm."
"But what is the cause of all this?"
"All what?" demanded the escort, with a touch of wonder.
"All this damage," explained the doctor patiently. "Has he been
fighting?"
"Lord bless ye, no, sir!" whispered the escort, hoarse with horror.
"'_E_ ain't been fightin'. Bill Dawkins is a gentleman!"
"Then," cried the doctor, at last permitting himself to show heat, "who
in the devil's name has been mutilating him?"
The escort looked blank. "Mutinate--mutinate," he repeated
thoughtfully. "I ain't 'eard about that, sir."
The doctor sighed, and soaked some dressing. "Could you think
carefully," he then suggested, "and tell me how he came to meet this
trouble?"
"What trouble?" murmured the escort. He put his head on one side and
opened his mouth, and his resemblance to an inquisitive owl was
pathetic. "What trouble do you mean, sir?"
"_This_," cried the frenzied gentleman, pointing wildly to Mr. Dawkins's
wounds.
"'Is _'ead_, do ye mean, sir?" demanded the escort.... "O-o-o-h!
_That_ don't matter, sir.... _It's 'is birthday_."
"Oh," said the doctor, applying stitches, "I see. A celebration?"
"On'y his birthday, sir: just a plain birthday. 'E's thirty-two to-day,
ole Bill is. It's 'is birthday, see?"
The doctor did see, and he stitched away emphatically. Mr. Dawkins left
off singing. And when the repairs had been completed, it appeared that
their influence had extended far beyond the damaged forehead. Mr.
Dawkins sat up in his chair a sober man.
"Cheer up, Bill!" exhorted his bodyguard in chorus.
"I am cheered up," responded William, with a November edition of the
smile. "My name is Dawkins. On'y--on'y me nose itches. Got 'ny biceps,
Doctor?"
"Eh? What?" snapped the doctor.
"Biceps, ole love. For pullin' teeth. My name is William Dawkins, and
when I does a job I does it thorough. What's the good o' makin' two
journeys if you can do yere business in one? Ain't that logic? Of
course it is. My name is Dawkins. So fetch out the biceps, Doctor.
You'll find 'im back there on the right 'and side, sittin' by 'isself in
the pit, a ugly, lop-sided sot 'e is, with a 'ole in 'is middle. Fetch
out the biceps."
"Do you really want your tooth out?" asked the doctor doubtfully.
"You've lost a lot of blood, you know. Don't--don't you think perhaps
that at some future----"
Mr. Dawkins rose up from his seat. "My name is Dawkins," he said
simply, "and I've ordered one biceps. If you don't like the contrac',
Doctor, there's many another bloke 'll be glad of my custom. Don't make
no trouble, Doctor. I'm a friendly bloke. But me name is Dawkins. I
likes to soot me fancy. I got a fancy for to shift this tooth. Me and
this tooth we don't soot each other. I get a fancy sometimes, too, as
I'll have me leg took off, because----"
"About this tooth, now," said the doctor, with haste; "I'm ready when
you are."
Mr. Dawkins, to whom the clean white bandages about his head imparted an
air of weakness and infirmity, replied with a stave or two from a
patriotic ballad, and then seated himself in a chair. The tooth was
removed.
Mr. Dawkins then examined the doctor's forceps and apostrophised the
trophy which they still held. "Ache away, ye beggar!" he exclaimed.
"Who's laughin' now? ... What I got to pay you, Doctor?"
"One shilling altogether," replied the doctor.
Mr. Dawkins flung down half-a-crown.
"Take it out of that," he cried. "I never paid a bob more 'earty. Nor
I never met a genelman as was nicer spoken nor 'andier. And when I make
me mind up in regards to this leg I'll bring it round to you. Me and my
family is noted for our limbs. There's a uncle o' mine what 'ad a bone
took out o' 'is ankle what they keeps in a bottle at Guy's 'Orspital to
this day. Comin' out to 'ave one, Doctor? It's my birthday."
The doctor regretted that professional engagements previously entered
into prevented him from accepting the very kind invitation of Mr.
Dawkins. He also handed that gentleman his change and a small packet of
tissue-paper which contained the tooth--the latter offertory being based
upon an immemorial custom of the spot-cash trade.
And Mr. Dawkins expressed his gratitude in song, and Mr. Dawkins's
bodyguard assisted in the swelling chorus thereof. And as Doctor Brink
shook hands with each in turn and received their oft-repeated praises,
he returned to the question which was still unanswered.
"How _did_ that head get cracked, Mr. Dawkins? A slight dispute, eh?"
"Dispute!" echoed Mr. Dawkins. "Me? On me birthday? Why I bin sittin'
in the 'Four Soldiers' as gentle as a clurk from two o'clock this
arternoon. Ain't that right, mates?"
"Certainly. What 'e's tellin' you is right, sir," confirmed the
bodyguard.
"Not even a friendly spar?" queried the puzzled doctor.
"It's me birthday, I tell you," reiterated Mr. Dawkins. "And I bin
sittin' like a corpse in the 'Four Soldiers.' First time I bin in there
for four months, and----"
"How did your head get cracked, then?"
"That," said Mr. Dawkins, with dignity, "is what I was goin' to explain,
old bird. There's a Scotchman got the 'Soldiers' now, you see, and 'e's
a iggerant swine, and---- They've moved the blessed step!"
*XXXVII*
*THE MORAL SENSE*
"Good morning, Mrs. Budd," said Doctor Brink, meeting that lady in his
waiting-room. "I suppose you've called round for the medicine."
"Well, sir," responded Mrs. Budd, turning up a red nose and two very
swollen eyes, "I 'ave and I 'aven't. Could I see you privit?"
Doctor Brink led the way into the consulting-room and lit a pipe, at the
same time inviting Mrs. Budd to "let us have it!"
"Now then, Mrs. Budd, let's have it!"
Mrs. Budd began to cry.
"That isn't what I asked for," explained the doctor.
"I--I 'ardly know 'ow to--to tell you," sobbed Mrs. Budd. "It's so
disgraceful."
"I am always hearing disgraceful things," the doctor said. "You needn't
consider my feelings: they are hardened."
"Well, Doctor," exclaimed Mrs. Budd, "the truth is that what I 'ad
yisterday and the Dark Brown to-day makes eighteenpence and I can't pay
you. And----"
"And?" repeated the doctor sternly.
"And--and--I 'ardly know 'ow to tell you, Doctor: it is sich a
disgraceful thing--my man has stole a 'am and a policeman come for 'im
and they have locked him up."
"I will book the eighteenpence," said Doctor Brink.
"Thank you, Doctor: you are a gentleman," said Mrs. Budd.
"Take a chair, ma'am," said Doctor Brink.
"Not at all, sir," said Mrs. Budd.... "I don't know what you'll think of
us, I'm sure I don't. And 'im so respectable up to now."
"How did it happen?" inquired the Doctor.
"Well," said Mrs. Budd, "I don't exactly know the ins and outs of it;
but 'e see the 'am in Mr. Biggs's shop and Mr. Biggs was spinning
shillings with another gentleman, what was a Guardian same as 'isself,
and Mr. Biggs's back was turned and Mine 'e see the 'am and took it."
"The devil!" exclaimed Doctor Brink.
"Yes," assented Mrs. Budd. "And 'im ben allus so respectable. And mind
you, Doctor--I will say this for 'im: I don't believe it would 'ave
'appened only for the little gel bein' so porely. I told 'im what you
said about givin' 'er nourishing food, and 'e seems, as you might say,
to 'ave got it on the brain. The job what 'e went after yesterday
morning, 'e never got it after all; and in the evening 'e took this
'am."
"Ha!" exclaimed the doctor.
"I'm sure we all agree with you," said Mrs. Budd. "'Im to 'ave bin a
uniformed porter for all these years and now to turn thief."
"The Ingrate," observed my friend. "How is it that he has ceased to wear
the uniform of a porter?"
"Well, sir, you see, sir," explained his patient, "the company's trade
been so bad they was forced to reduce. Mine, 'e on'y went with the last
'underd, and if he'd been a younger man they would 'a kep' him on. They
give 'im a splendid reference; and now--if it wasn't for the children,
Doctor, I could do away with meself, to think 'e should so disgrace
'isself. It was a big 'am, sir; they say 'e will get three months. But
if any gentleman, same as you, sir, was to say a word for 'im, perhaps
they would make it lighter. It won't do away with the disgrace, sir;
but perhaps it would come easier for Budd. Though I'm sure 'e don't
deserve no pity."
"I should think not," assented Doctor Brink. "After being a uniformed
porter for all those years. And a _big_ ham, too."
"And the best quality, also," said Mrs. Budd.
"And from a Poor Law Guardian," added Doctor Brink.
"They tell me," continued Mrs. Budd, "that he never orfered no
resistance. I 'ope you will think of that, Doctor, when you are
considering it over.
"'Is father was an ironmonger, once, in a good way of business; but he
took to drink and women, and the 'ome was broke up. Mine, 'e had to go
out and shift for 'isself as a lad of twelve. It's no excuse for
stealin' 'ams, of course; but--you never know. Perhaps this wouldn't
never 'ave 'appened if 'is bringin' up was different. 'E's allus bin a
sober man 'isself; but when a person is brought up rough it is bound to
show itself some'ow.
"I am sorry to say we eat the 'am; for 'e brought it 'ome and never said
nothing to nobody, and we was all of us glad of the food. The little
girl, she _did_ enjoy it, pore lamb. She don't know now but what it was
honest meat.
"They come and fetched 'im away from 'ome this morning when I was out to
sell some bottles. I 'ardly like to tell the children, for they won't
'ardly believe that their pore dad could be so wicked; only I s'pose the
neighbours will tell 'em, if I don't. The neighbours is so friendly with
my children.
"It's a shameful thing for a man to do: to turn thief at 'is age and
bring disgrace on everybody."
"Damned shameful," said the doctor.
"I often wonder," Mrs. Budd ran on, "whether that dizziness what you
treated 'im for is at the back of all this. 'E _'as_ seemed a little
strange since then; not much different, you know; only a little altered,
same as anybody wouldn't notice except they was about with him a lot,
like I am. _Something_ must 'ave 'appened, don't you think, Doctor, to
make a respectable man like 'e was turn thief?"
"The dizziness may have been indirectly connected with it," admitted the
doctor. "He was suffering from a complaint which doctors call
malnutrition."
"He has sent a message," stated Mrs. Budd, "to say he hopes I won't
think none the worse of him. He says he knows he has done wrong----"
The doctor interrupted her with a profane exclamation.
"I beg your pardon, sir?" said Mrs. Budd.
"I say," said the doctor, "that this surprises me."
"Oh," cried Mrs. Budd, "'e ain't what anybody would call a bad man at
'eart; really 'e ain't, sir. 'Tis something strange what's come over
'im as made 'im turn thief. I was tellin' you, Doctor, about this
message. I sent one back to say I will think it over.
"'I can forgive,' I says, 'but I can't forget.' I mean to stand by 'im,
really, if it's only for the children's sake.
"Besides, he ain't never treated me so bad--considering. He ain't
always bin a thief. And he knows he had done wrong. He admits that,
Doctor. Perhaps he'll try to do better in future. Don't you think so?"
"I can think anything of these thieves," said Doctor Brink.
"Yes," murmured Mrs. Budd.... "I admit 'e don't deserve no pity."
"And he 'knows he has done wrong'!" repeated the doctor.
"Oh, yes, sir," said Mrs. Budd.
"And he's utterly shocked at and sick with himself?"
"He's very low-sperited and shamefaced, Doctor. He knows he has done
wrong-"
"Then," said Doctor Brink, "I'll give you a letter to the Vicar.... The
Vicar, I'm sure, will help. Personally I think that your husband and
all his social equals ought to be locked up for ever. But the Vicar,
I'm sure, will be charmed to help."
"Thank you, Doctor," murmured Mrs. Budd. "I'm sure he don't deserve your
kindness; but he knows he----"
"Here's your letter," stated Doctor Brink. "If you stop here any longer
I shall choke you. Go away."
And, looking very puzzled, Mrs. Budd departed.
*XXXVIII*
*LOVE AND HATE*
The Hon. Mrs. Strudwicke-Moses came to tea with Doctor Brink the other
day, your servant being in attendance. The Hon. Mrs. Strudwicke-Moses
derives from beer; but she has a reputation for benevolence, wisdom, and
the party virtues which is envied even by cocoa.
Doctor Brink, finding the minutes between "calls" hang heavy on his
hands, has devoted them of late to organising a sort of small relief
fund, from which he provides the most thriftless and improvident and
least meritorious of his patients with milk and coal and flour.
"It is rank charity, of course," the doctor has had grace to
admit--"charity of the filthiest description. But we do flatter
ourselves that our little effort is free from the deadly sin of
'overlapping.' There isn't a really deserving case on our list."
The Hon. Mrs. Strudwicke-Moses had received an early invitation to
assist this fund, and had lost no time in doing so, the doctor having
intimated that cocoa had also competed. And now the honourable lady was
come to take tea.
"I cannot tell you," she said, "how much I admire the quiet,
unostentatious, truly Christian heroism of you East End doctors. It may
truly be said of you that you give your all."
"How so?" inquired the doctor.
"Well, look at you!" responded Mrs. Strudwicke-Moses. "Here you are, in
voluntary exile, living amid filth and squalor, denying yourself every
luxury, even that of fresh air, in order to devote yourself to
alleviating the sufferings of our neglected poor."
"You flatter me," the doctor said.
"Not at all," responded his visitor. "Compare yourself with any even of
our most eminent philanthropists. They only supply the poor with
money--they merely give of their abundance. Now you, and men like you
(pardon my mentioning it, but I cannot help pointing this out to you)
you give _yourselves_. You actually see and touch the poor things, even
the most unpleasant of them."
"That's true," admitted Doctor Brink, with the respectful air of one who
has been introduced to a new and important truth. "But," he added, "they
jolly well pay me for it."
The lady made a pretty sign of disagreement. "You cannot make me
believe," she said, "that men like you are actuated by thoughts of gain.
It is the cry of suffering which brings you here."
"That's true, madam," assented the doctor. "A cry of suffering which
emanated from a bank. As for the pay question, I may assure you that I
attach the very greatest importance to their sixpences. You see, there
is a clear profit--medicine and bottle included--of fivepence farthing
on every one of them, even the most unpleasant. I am saving up, you
know, to buy a property--some pleasantly situated place in Scotland with
a trout-stream. I have lived on animals all my life, and I want to try
fish for a change."
"You are making fun of me, Doctor," demurred the lady.
"Really," protested Doctor Brink, "I was never more serious in my life.
I am saving money here at the rate of six hundred a year, and living
well into the bargain. Which reminds me to apologise for keeping my
foot up in your presence. I've got gout rather badly--the result of
Burgundy. I drink a good brand, but I drink it to excess. Suffering
humanity pays for that, you know. The silly idiots crowd in here by the
hundred, bringing bottles which I fill with a weak solution of
picric-acid and water. For this service they pay me sixpence and go
away, believing themselves cured. It is one of the simplest methods of
acquiring trout-streams which has ever been invented."
"I don't believe you, Doctor," asserted the lady. "Men like you, if
money is their only thought, can get it by easier means than coming out
here to rob the poor poor."
"I could rob the poor in a pleasanter neighbourhood, of course,"
admitted Doctor Brink. "But then, you see, the living here is
cheap--one economises even on the Burgundy--and I'm saving up to buy a
trout-stream."
"At any rate," protested Mrs. Strudwicke-Moses, "you like the dear
creatures and feel sorry for their unfortunate poverty. Now don't you,
Doctor?"
"Are you suggesting, madam, that I pity the poor?"
"Of course you do," cried Mrs. Strudwicke-Moses.
My friend, with an effort, sat up on his couch.
"My dear lady," he said, "I am a thoughtful and unusually intelligent
man of forty, and the only thing which I have ever pitied in all my life
was a parrot in a cage. But as for these hungry and verminous creatures
who are saving up for my trout-stream, I have never ceased to hate and
despise them."
"But why?" exclaimed the Hon. Mrs. Strudwicke-Moses, who, by this time,
was seriously alarmed.
"For the same reason which causes you to despise them," explained the
doctor.
"But," protested Mrs. Strudwicke-Moses, "I love the dear things! They
are so unfortunate."
"I believe," declared the doctor, "that our feeling is identical; but,
even to oblige a lady, I cannot call it love.
"When," he continued, "a large number of stout men are pleased to starve
and shiver for no other reason than that I desire a trout-stream, I
consider them to be worthy neither of love nor pity. I consider them to
deserve what may be termed a helping foot, and when they have paid for
my trout-stream I shall jolly well see that they get it."