"I must confess, Doctor, that your bitterness surprises me. I can't
think how anybody _could_ feel angry with the poor dear things. For my
part," she added, arranging her furs, "I love them. They are so
unfortunate!"
*XXXIX*
*ON A DEAD POLICEMAN*
A small blue document reached the doctor recently. I don't remember
exactly what words it contained; but there were references to God and
the King and certain commands and threats thereto pertaining. And late
that same night the doctor, looking wistfully upon a large bottle of
claret, uttered these words--
"That's a deuced good wine, that is, and I'm dog-tired, damme, and it's
a dog's night, dammit. But I've got to hustle out into the thick of it,
and do two 'midders' and a damnable post-mortem. You'd better come
along."
I went along--not exactly because I wanted to, but because my better
nature told me that I could drink the doctor's claret with more decency
when claret-time came round if I had first earned my share. "But," said
I to the doctor, "I will thank you to take notice that I have no
intention whatever of watching you perform post-mortems."
"I don't perform post-mortems," replied my host. "This is one of the
little matters which we 'arrange.'"
Knowing that this mysterious statement was one which time itself would
explain, I did not ask any questions, but put on my boots instead, and
we walked out into the murk and slosh, and the doctor went into two
pig-styes and ushered in two lives, and I stood in two doorways and
caught two colds.
And then we pursued the darkling ways until they ended in a red brick
mansion with art-metal fittings, one of which we pulled with such effect
that dogs began to bark at every hand, and a window was violently
opened, and a heavy voice, high up, said, "All _right_!" very gruffly.
"That is George," remarked the doctor cheerfully. "George will have to
slip his trousers on and come downstairs and be useful."
"George," I ventured to remark, "inhabits a very fine house."
"Yes," replied the doctor, "he occupies a pleasant flat. So well
placed. He is within a stone's throw of his own mortuary, as I daresay
you have observed."
"Then George----" I began.
"Is the official guardian of our English dead. His technical skill is
profound. He was a porter at St. Giles's for ten years, you see. Ah!
Ha! Here _is_ George."
There was a grating of bolts behind the big oak gate at which we stood,
and a little wicket which was set within the same came slowly open to
disclose an ox-like bulk which growled out some inquiry. The doctor,
ignoring this presence, stepped daintily through the wicket, and I
followed. I then perceived that we were standing in a courtyard, neatly
paved, and having large, neat buildings upon every side. The doctor,
jerking his umbrella towards each of these natural objects in turn,
spoke as with the mouth of a guide.
"Coroner's court is on your right," he said; "mortuary chamber straight
in front; post-mortem chamber slightly to the left; coroner's private
office still more to left; jury room just here; apartment for storing
coffins just there; stairway opposite leads to George's private
chambers; dark object there is kennel, containing George's private dog;
dark object here is George. How are you, George?"
The dark object referred to came closer, accompanied by a very small
candle in a very large lamp, which it held up to the doctor's face, at
the same time exhibiting its own, which was ox-like in character. "It's
_you_," said the voice of the object at last. "I thought it might be
somebody as was deceivin' theirself into playin' a lark on me. 'Ow are
you, Doctor?"
At this the doctor and George shook hands with a great display of
warmth, and George set down his lantern and produced a pipe, and slowly
filled it, and slowly lighted it. "I thought it funny," he then
remarked, between slow puffs, "as anybody should deceive theirselves
into playing a lark on _me_. What is it to-night, Doctor?"
"Gregory the name is," replied my friend. "Inquest at ten o'clock
to-morrow. I'm sorry to have you out at this time of night, but I
couldn't possibly get round earlier."
"Not a word, Doctor," responded George, as he shook the raindrops from
his cap. "This ain't the latest p.m. I done by many. Let me see
now--Gregory? It'll be that middle-aged job from Wallflower Street,
what? Come in this arternoon. What?"
"That's the case," responded Dr. Brink.
"Then," said George, "I'm ready when you are, Doctor. What do you
suspect?"
He moved off up the yard, the doctor following.
"_I'll_ wait here," said your servant.
"That's right," assented the doctor. "I'm not going farther than the
doorway myself."
"Gentleman's welcome for my part," intimated George. For which the
doctor thanked him.
"But," he said, "I don't think that my friend cares much for
post-mortems."
"Oh!" reflected George. "There's lots like that in these days. I puts
it down to them street preachers. If you'll wait there 'arf a minnit,
Doctor, I'll just switch on the lights."
With these words the pleasant fellow entered into an adjacent building,
which presently became illuminated. I could see the shadow of his form
upon the ground-glass windows (which were spacious) as he busied himself
with some congenial task upon the other side.
"You'll be all right out here, I suppose?" inquired the doctor kindly,
while we waited for the reappearance of George. "I shan't be long, you
know. George is very quick. He knows exactly what I want."
"Who is the poor chap?" I inquired.
"I suppose you'd call him the mortuary attendant," said the doctor.
"He's really very skilful."
"I was alluding," I explained, "to the other poor chap: to him who is to
be the subject of this accomplished gentleman's skill."
"Oh," said the doctor. "Now let me see.... What did the widow tell me?
Ah, I remember now. He was a retired policeman. And there's George
beckoning to me. I shan't be long."
The doctor took his stand within the open doorway through which George
had entered. And I took my stand in the rain, and watched the doctor's
back and the shadow of George falling upon the ground-glass window-pane
as he busied himself with congenial tasks.
Now and then the doctor would address some speech to George and stick
his head a little farther round the door-post, and the shadow of George
would draw, as it were, a little closer to the window-pane.
And after a certain time--a long time, it seemed to me--the light went
out, and George and the doctor came forth, and George received five
shillings and bowed us politely out. He also spat and uttered a parting
_mot_. Said George--
"He liked his little drop, Doctor--what?"
*XL*
*MRS. GLUCKSTEIN*
It was one of those dull, dishonest days which open with a promise of
rain and keep on promising all the time. The mothers and aunts in
Doctor Brink's dispensary sat in couples, brooding silently.
Now and then, at long intervals, somebody would express herself in a
rich, resentful snuffle or a limp oath; but, generally speaking, one
just sat still and got damper. And those ladies who by virtue of
seniority were from time to time admitted into the consulting-room
carried their langour with them. Their fringes were straight and sticky,
and they knew it, and hope had departed from them. They propped
themselves up just anywhere, and slid their empty medicine-bottles out
of one wet hand into another wet hand, and breathed hard, and pitied
themselves, allowing the doctor to smile briskly and talk.
By the time that closing time drew near the doctor himself was beginning
to feel the heat, and we began to wonder whether anything would happen
to _his_ fringe.
But Mrs. Isodore Gluckstein came in, and refreshed him.
Mrs. Gluckstein had four chins and a comprehensive bust, and no visible
waist-line, and she moved with difficulty; but Mrs. Gluckstein had
within her certain fires which were, as it might be, of the spirit, and
burned, so to speak, with fierceness, and kept things moving. They
re-curled the doctor's fringe for him. Said Mrs. Gluckstein--
"I vant you to eggshammun me, young men. I gut low-spirited."
"Will you show me your tongue, please?" said the doctor pleasantly. But
said Mrs. Gluckstein: "Rubbutch!
"Rubbutch!" she repeated. "Vat you vanter see me tongue for? Do I keep
me spirits on me tongue, then? I gut low spirits, I tell you, and the
indigistions. Vat I vant is a Noirve Tunnuk. Ain't you gut none?"
"I can give you a nerve tonic, of course," assented the doctor. "But
don't you think I'd better go through the form of making sure that you
need it?"
"But," protested Mrs. Gluckstein, "I _told_ you det I vant id. I gut
low spirits. You're a proper, edugatud, respectable duckter, ain't you?
Can't you see vat I gut?"
"If you could make it convenient," said the doctor, "to discuss your
symptoms, I----"
"Symptums!" echoed Mrs. Gluckstein. "I ain'd gut no symptums. I gut low
spirits. It's so simple. And I gut the indigistions--shocking! Vat I
reely vant is dem Nelson's Noirve Beans. You know dem, Duckter--vat?"
"I have read about them--in the papers. You 'Try one in your teacup,'
don't you?"
"Det's right, Duckter," assented Mrs. Gluckstein. "Dem Nelson's Noirve
Beans is vat I reely vant. I gut der same exact sickness vat dey make
'em for: low spirits and indigistions. It's a fine ding dis Nelson's
Noirve Beans: vat, Duckter?"
"I don't think I should place _great_ faith in them if I were you.
They're made to cure so many things at once, you see."
"De babers dalks vell about 'em."
"They write those talks themselves, you know. The papers get paid for
printing them."
Mrs. Gluckstein raised a chubby hand and pushed this argument away from
her. "I gant 'elp vedder der babers is baid or nut," she said, "dem
Nelson's Noirve Beans is a good medsun. Everybody knows id.
"I arst der boy in der chimmis shup 'smornin', and 'e tole me, 'e seth:
'Ve sells a lut of 'em', 'e seth. 'E vould 'a' said more, Duckter, but
I don't believe dey likes to thell 'em you. It ain'd der _good_ dings
vat brings yer in der brufit. You notice dat in _your_ business--vat,
Duckter?"
The doctor looked at his watch. "Then you'd like me to give you a nerve
tonic, Mrs. Gluckstein. Very well. We'll see if we can't manage to
rival Mr. Nelson's Nerve Beans."
Mrs. Gluckstein pushed _this_ statement away with both hands.
"You'll do your best, no doubt, Duckter," she said; "but I dink dem
Nelson's Beans is vat I reely vant. And Mr. Gluckstein (God bless 'im;
long life to 'im) 'e dinks 'id too. But dey cust a lut o' money,
Duckter, dem Nelson's Noirve Beans. A shillin' a bux I dink it is dey
cust. And Mr. Gluckstein (may he walk in blessedness) he is a vise man.
"'Shall ve slay the ox' 'e seth, 'ven der sheep custs not so dear?' He
dinks the same as me det it is good medsun, dis Nelson's Noirve Beans;
'is own mudder (may she live to be ninety) vas cured from going blind by
dem.
"But ve seth to vun annudder, ve seth, 'a shillin' is dear for a
medsun.' So Mr. Gluckstein (may the Lord be friends vid 'im) 'e
consulted vid me, saying---
"'Never mind about dem Noirve Beans for de dime bein',' 'e seth. 'You
ain'd so bad enough, in der meandime,' he seth. 'Ve'll try der duckter
_foirst_,' he seth."
*XLI*
*OF HUMAN KINDNESS*
"Whether my name is Donovan or whether it's Smith, I do not wish to be
be'olding to them, Doctor; I do not want their blasted milk. That is
the long and short of it."
Applying my eye with feverish haste to the squint-hole, I perceived that
she who uttered these proud sentiments was young and not ill-favoured,
having red hair and freckles and a "Hands off" expression. "That," she
repeated, "is the long and the short of it--if you can call it milk at
all! They buy it from ole Tompkins."
"Well," said the doctor, feeling, evidently, that he was called upon to
say _something_, "well, Mrs. Donovan----"
"One minit, Doctor," interpolated his visitor, "it is Wilson now, if you
please, Doctor. Donovan was our name when we lived in Beddoes Street."
The doctor uttered an apology and began again. "Well, Mrs. Wilson,
I----"
But the visitor again checked him. "Of course, Doctor," said the lady,
"you will understand that _she_ don't know me by the name of Wilson. I
am still Mrs. Bannister to 'er, same as I was in the ole days, when she
got me to sign the pledge. Pledge, indeed! Fudge, _I_ call it. Did
ever you 'ear of a thing so silly, Doctor? Me not turned eighteen at
the time, and to make me sign a paper about never touching nothing for
the rest of me life. And she calls 'erself a lady. With 'er airs an'
graces, an' 'er two pennorth o' milk an' what not! I've broke the
blessed thing a 'undred times, that is one comfort.
"The joke of it is, Doctor, that they almost force you to take their
blessed milk. Is it right, I arst you, Doctor, that a person is forced
to be beholding to another person for such a trivial thing as milk
because they 'appen to be sister to the vicar? You understand my
meaning, don't you?"
"Perfectly," assented Doctor Brink.
"You know yesself 'ow ill I been, Doctor. Well, then, she come round to
my place every day, she did, with 'er little notebook and 'er
gold-rimmed eye glasses, and what not, and she says to me, she says:--
"'I didn't ought to be visiting you at all, not be rights,' she says;
'but you was a good girl once,' she says, 'one of my very favourite
girls once,' she says, 'though you _'ave_ made mock of your solemn
pledge,' she says, 'and I thought I must come round,' she says, 'for old
times' sake, and ask you what you mean be wastin' money on doctors,' she
says.
"'It's me own money,' I says.
"'Never mind 'oose money it is," says she, 'you ain't got enough of it
to go an' waste on doctors when the Church 'as got a beautiful sick club
and a free dispensary all kindly arranged for you. Sich extravagance!'
says she. 'And now, I suppose, you'll expect us to give you some milk
tickets.'
"Did ever you 'ear the like of it, Doctor?
"'I ain't never arst you for no milk tickets,' I says; 'I ain't never
arst you for nothing. Me 'usband is in work, and I kin buy me own milk,
and I kin buy me own doctorin'.'
"'It's a disgrace,' she says. 'If the vicar was to 'ear of it 'e would
be furious,' she says.
"'Then I shouldn't tell 'im, miss,' says I.
"'Why?' she says.
"'Because,' I says, 'it isn't a sister's place to put 'er brother into
tempers.'
"She raised 'er forrid at me. 'You seem to forgit,' says she, 'as you
are talkin' to a lady.'
"'Quite right,' I answers, 'so I did.'
"She looks at me solemn for a little while, and then she says, in a sort
o' 'lift-'im-gently' voice, she says, 'I suppose we shall 'ave to let
you 'ave some milk tickets. I will talk to Miss Perkins,' she says.
"'But, if you please, miss,' I tells 'er, 'I don't _want_ any milk
tickets. I got as much milk to drink as ever I want.'
"'Nonsense!' she says. 'I will talk to Miss Perkins. A pore woman like
you are didn't oughter be 'ere at all. You oughter be in the infirmary
gettin' proper attention, instead o' wasting money on doctors.'
"'But my man is in work,' I tells 'er once more. I rubbed in that point
'cause I thought per'aps she was ignorant about it--'im goin' to work
under the name of Rogers. But it didn't satisfy 'er, bless you.
"'Your 'usband 'avin' work 'as got nothink to do wiv it,' she says.
'All the more reason,' she says, 'for you to save the money while it is
comin' in,' she says. 'Your Doctor Brinks, indeed! What's the good of
us Church people gettin' up all these kind things for you if you go an'
get ill in this 'igh-stepping fashion,' says she, 'with your private
medicine and your private doctors? Wasting your husband's money.'
"'E don't complain,' I says. ''E likes me to be independent.'
"'Nonsense!' she says. 'The idea! People in your position can't afford
to be independent. What you working people are coming to is really
remarkable,' she says. 'Ere's me an' the vicar, an' Miss Perkins, and
the 'ole Church workin' 'ard for you all day long, and all the reward we
get is a lot of impertinent talk about independence! 'Owever,' she
says, 'I'll see as you get the milk.'
"'But,' I tells 'er fur the twentieth time, 'I don't want no milk.'
"'Fiddlesticks!' says she; 'I'll talk to Miss Perkins. You kin 'ave a
pint a day for a fortnight.'
"'On'y,' I says, 'I don't _want_ no milk.'
"'My good woman,' says she, 'you don't know what you want. Nor it ain't
your place to know. Your place is to take what's given you an' be
respectful. Next time you see your Doctor Brink, you kin tell 'im I
told you so.'"
* * * * *
"So that," pursued the visitor, "is what I mean, Doctor, when I say be
damned to 'er blarsted milk. Do you follow my meaning?"
"Perfectly," said the doctor again, as he grasped the rebel's hand.
"Perfectly, Mrs. Donovan."
"Mrs. Wilson, if you please, Doctor," corrected the lady.
The doctor offered many apologies. "I believe," he said reflectively,
"that you are Mrs. Bannister to _her_?"
"That's right," assented his patient.
"Ah!" murmured Doctor Brink, "I will write to her and acknowledge her
kind message. Be gad I will. Yes. Ah! I--I--begad, yes. Ha! H'm!
... And now, Mrs. Ban----Mrs. Wilson, what is this about the certificate
for the insurance company?"
"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Wilson. "Will you oblige me, Doctor, be makin' it
out in the name of Banks?"
*XLII*
*THE LAST*
"It's true then?" I inquired.
"Oh, yes," responded James--"quite true. Fatty's got a person coming to
see him this afternoon about buying the practice."
"I suppose it's no use asking, 'Why all this?'"
"Well," admitted James, "you know it's against our principles in this
household to give reasons. But seeing that it's you--the truth is that
Fatty isn't going to stick it any longer, because he says he'll be
damned if he does stick it any longer. He says he's going to start a
pottery and kill them quicker."
"_You_ don't seem so tremendously jubilant as I was led to expect."
"No-o," replied James. "The idea was rather exciting at first. But
I've been walking about to-day telling everybody the news; and, really,
people have been so awfully kind. Mrs. Bernstein--where they make the
old furniture, you know--actually cried and gave me a salted cucumber;
and her brother, who is our fish man, says he's sending round a
hat--why, I don't know--besides a small plaice which came this morning.
And dear old Mr. Grimsdick, the grocer, got very excited indeed, and he
says it isn't to be heard of, and he's coming round to stop it. And Mrs.
Bolt, where we buy our coal, she said, 'Lord-love-a-duck,' she said,
'what next? You tell your father to stop where he is. You tell him he
suits us very well. We don't want none of your educated gentlemen in
Bovingdon Street.'
"Besides," continued James, "there's Baffin. What are we to do about
Baffin? We can't sell Baffin with the practice. And what's to become of
him? _We_ all know that he's a genius, but nobody else has found it out
yet, and so he hasn't got much money. Think of all his pictures stuck to
the washhouse wall! Fatty says they'll be worth thousands one day; but
they won't come off the walls, and if we leave them there somebody else
will steal the money. And there are all his clothes. Baffin has been
collecting clothes for years, and these are all in the
washhouse--_somewhere_. I really don't----"
James's reflections were interrupted by the sudden opening of the door,
which admitted a strange young gentleman into our presence. He was
followed by Doctor Brink himself.
"This," said the latter gentleman, "is Mr. Reginald Cavendish, who has
come to inquire about the practice. He is charmed with the situation of
the house, my dear."
"What I mean to say," explained Reginald, having made his bows, "is that
you've got so many windows, and such decent rooms. One doesn't expect
that sort of thing in the East End. My pater will be quite pleased.
It's my pater who's going to buy this practice for me, you know. I'm
studying law, you know--goin' in for this medico-legal game--and my
pater thinks this'd be a good thing to amuse myself with until I'm
through. It's all cash, you say, Doctor.... Ah! Well, it saves a lot
of fag, book-keepin', an' that--what? Not exactly what you might term
'classy,' but--you needn't tell people, eh? Who's to know--what?
"Of course," continued Mr. Cavendish, as if in answer to an imaginary
objector, "the patients do smell, I suppose. But a chap could have a
change here. A sort of professional uniform--what? Ha! Ha! This place
all right for gettin' about, Doctor? Easy reach of the West End and all
that sort of thing?"
"We are served by two railways," responded Doctor Brink, "besides a
tramline. And there are cabs at the London Hospital."
"No motor-buses, then--what? _No motor-buses_?"
Doctor Brink was able to assure his visitor that the boon of the
motor-bus would not be absent from that gentleman's future joys.
The cloud which had sombred Mr. Cavendish's features immediately gave
place to a smile.
"Good business," he cried. "Whenever a chap gets too awfully fed up
with it, then, he can nip on to something or other and have a night at
the Pav.--what? Besides," added Mr. Cavendish, "a chap can put up with
a lot for twelve hundred a year. That's what it's doing, you say?"
"That's what _I'm_ doing," replied Doctor Brink. "But then," he
explained, with a mild expression, "I haven't tried the effect of
running the practice from the Pav."
"Oh, quite," assented Mr. Cavendish. "What I mean to say is, of course
not. But when I take over the practice, I shall run an assistant: one of
those middle-aged Scotch chaps, you know, with a turn-down collar. A
chap can afford to have one of those beggars if he's doing twelve
hundred--especially when he's a bachelor--what? Ha! Ha! ... I shall let
my assistant do most of the night-work and the confinements, and all
that sort of thing. I'm a consulting-room man, really."
The other practitioner merely smiled. "I suppose," continued Mr.
Cavendish, "that you don't give these beggars anything very special in
the way of drugs. No elaborate gout cures--what? Ha! Ha!"
"It's a faith-cure practice almost entirely," replied the doctor,
winking at your servant.
"Oh," said Mr. Cavendish, a little coldly. "Of course, I should run the
show on dignified lines. They'll have everything in reason. I shall do
my own dispensing. You can be sure that they get the right stuff
then--what?"
Again the doctor merely smiled.
"And now," said Mr. Cavendish, rising from his chair, "I shall have to
clear out. Got to dine with a couple of chaps at some beastly club. I
think this will suit me very well, Doctor; just the thing I've been
looking for--a quiet, steady practice to keep a chap goin' while he's
reading for these rotten law exams. You'll hear from my pater, I
expect. Of course, your price is pretty stiff, but I'll tell my father
what I think about the show, and no doubt he'll consider it. So long,
Doctor."
"So long," said Doctor Brink, and James, and I.
"And now," said Doctor Brink, as he reached for a long glass, "supposing
_we_ consider it?"
"I _have_ considered it," said James. "We are going to stop."
"Why?" exclaimed the doctor.
"Because," replied James, "it is too awful to think of a person like
that being let loose on everybody."
"A person!" echoed the doctor. "My dear girl, that was an awfully
educated young man. He's an M.B.! and he's going to run the practice on
dignified lines. What more can the beggars ask for their sixpences than
real drugs and dignity?"
"Fatty," said his daughter, in a voice of cold resolve, "if you take me
away from here, do you know what I shall do? I shall live with Aunt
Isobel and go to school, and grow up to be a little lady."
"Ha!" cried the doctor, starting up.... "I'd forgotten you. Bring out
the Burgundy.... We'll consider it."