CHAPTER

I. Introducing Jim

II. Over the Telephone

III. Koko Reports Progress

IV. A Handmaid to Mercury

V. Jim Rejoices

VI. The Doctor Keeps His Word

VII. Sir Savile's Offer

VIII. Number Nine

IX. In the Pillory

X. At the Surgery

XI. Mr Maybury's Resolve

XII. Koko's Word

XIII. "Harris & Father"

XIV. A Piece of News

XV. Koko is Thanked

XVI. Jim's Patients

XVII. In the Crescent

XVIII. Master Harris is Shown Out

XIX. Hard Pressed

XX. After the Play

XXI. A Matter of Wages

XXII. The Warning

XXIII. The Ivory Fan

XXIV. Jim Catches a Train

XXV. In the Silent House

XXVI. The Vultures

XXVII. The Home-Coming

XXVIII. A Delicate Mission

XXIX. The Doctor Visits Mount Street

XXX. The Week Passes

XXXI. In which it is shown that the Bearded Man had made Another

Mistake

XXXII. In which Two People set out upon a Journey

*JIM MORTIMER.*

*CHAPTER I.*

*INTRODUCING JIM.*

People, unless they be star-gazers, do not walk along, as a rule, with

their faces turned towards the sky; hence it was that the slender

telephone wire communicating between Dr Mortimer's private residence,

"Pangora," and the doctor's private asylum, escaped the notice of all

but a few who fared along the eight miles of high road dividing

Threeways from Millingbourne, in the county of Eastfolkshire.

And yet this slender wire, which showed up against the blue sky much

like a substantial cobweb, was fraught with interest. It was barely 300

yards in length, its installation had been a comparatively cheap and

simple undertaking, and it had paid for itself scores of times over.

Messages of life and death passed across it constantly; instructions in

cases of emergency, tingling over the white line of road, saved the time

that would otherwise have been occupied in walking the 300 yards--for

doctors do not often run; reprimands were roared across it, bulletins

despatched by its agency, dietary altered, medicine prescribed.

The sunshine was coquetting with the little wire, and the great oaks and

elms were surveying the flirtation with affected indifference, one

bright September morning, when Mr James Mortimer, the Doctor's grandson,

who was known among his hospital intimates as the "Long 'Un," having

breakfasted in trousers, shirt, and dressing-gown, rose from the table

and ambled out into the surgery--for, in addition to an asylum, the

doctor had a lucrative practice in that part of Eastfolkshire. The

waiting-room adjoining the surgery was empty, save for one small, pale

boy.

Although James was on holiday, he occasionally acted as deputy when his

grandfather and the latter's assistant were not at hand. And James was

quite competent to do so, for he was a fully qualified surgeon.

"Well, Johnny, been eating green pears?"

The urchin looked guilty.

"Y-yes, sir."

"Let's see your tongue--ah! hum!" and the Long 'Un affected a serious

expression as he mixed a stiffish dose of black draught. The urchin

pulled a very wry face as he tasted the dose, and stopped for breath

half-way through it.

"Every drop!" commanded the Long 'Un.

The urchin obeyed him, and then, bursting into tears, was pleased to be

violently sick.

"You'll feel better now--and here's a penny for you," quoth Jim

Mortimer, in a truly paternal way for four-and-twenty.

But the urchin renewed his howling.

"I--I came up for me mother's medicine," he quavered; "I--she--she

didn't know I'd been eatin' pears."

The Long 'Un threw back his head and burst into a roar of laughter.

"By George! what a shot! Why, Johnny, I thought you'd come to be

doctored. Well, here's sixpence for you. Call again for the

medicine--I don't know anything about it."

The urchin took the sixpence with a smile showing through his tears, and

with a final sniff shuffled out of the waiting-room.

The Long 'Un still looking highly amused, approached the telephone and

rang up the asylum.

"Ay, ay, sir!" came the response.

"That you, Hughes?"

"Yes, Mr James."

"How's the Zoo?"

"All quiet except the major. We've had to put him in the padded room."

"The major again!"

"Yes, sir; broke out at breakfast. It took three of us to get him down.

He very near pulled Smith's windpipe out."

"He doesn't like Smith, does he?"

"'Ates him, sir."

"I think I'll come across and have a look at him," said Jim. "I have an

idea I can handle the old chap."

"Glad to see you, Mr James," replied the head attendant; "you're going

back to town to-day, aren't you, sir?"

"Yes--back to-day, worse luck."

Without bothering to alter his garb, Jim Mortimer, his gay dressing-gown

sweeping the ground, strolled out into the garden and sauntered along

the gravel path which led to the high road. As he went he pulled lazily

at his pipe. Both of the gardeners touched their hats and smiled a

welcome as he passed; the Long 'Un was a favourite all over the

settlement.

Certainly he looked a quaint figure as he emerged into the high road--a

quaint but not unpleasing one. Long he was--six feet, and four inches

over that--but square-shouldered and supple. His carriage was easy, but

not of a military description, and he stooped slightly, with the stoop

of the rowing-man rather than that of one engaged in sedentary work or

of one who has overgrown his strength. He looked, as he strolled across

the road, like a long, lean hound, trained to the hour, hard as steel

and tough as hickory. His face was well cut, with rather sleepy eyes

and a certain gentleness about the corners of the mouth that had caused

his school-fellows to regard him as somewhat of a "soft"--until he hit

them. His hair was clipped short and well brushed, and his complexion

was pink with health and the application of cold water.

As Jim was moving across the road in his indolently graceful way, a

carriage and pair approached at a quick trot. At a word from one of its

occupants the coachman pulled up close by the young surgeon.

"Can you tell me, please, if this is Dr Mortimer's?" inquired a

stern-faced elderly lady, whose rich mantle and handsome equipage

betokened her to be a person of means and possibly of position.

"Yes, all of this," replied Jim, with a comprehensive wave of his hand

which took in each side of the road, "is Dr Mortimer's." A pretty girl

was sitting by his questioner's side, and the fact was not lost upon

Jim. "The Doctor is out," he added, "but I am a medical man. Can I be

of service to you?"

The lady surveyed Jim's dressing-gown with evident disapproval, but Jim

glanced unconcernedly at the telephone wire overhead. Meanwhile the

pretty girl gazed straight before her at the blue smoke curling over the

housetops in Threeways, having decided that this very tall man in such

unorthodox attire was quite good-looking.

"I prefer to see Dr Mortimer himself. Do you think he will be in soon?"

"He may be in at any moment," said Jim; "that is the way to his house,"

he added to the coachman, "through those gates."

"I am obliged to you."

The lady sat back without troubling to bestow another glance on Jim, but

she observed to her companion as they entered the drive that the

extraordinary young fellow in the dressing-gown was probably one of the

madmen.

Jim Mortimer, sauntering on, at length reached the asylum, a

cheerful-looking red-brick-building, standing healthily high. He found

Hughes in the patients' common room--a spacious and airy apartment

provided with a piano, a bagatelle board, and other requisites for

indoor pastimes.

As Jim was chatting with the head attendant, a grey-haired,

round-shouldered man of some sixty summers came up to them.

"Take care, Mr James!" he exclaimed, "he's just behind you! Oh, if I

had a gun now!"

Jim knew that Mr Richards--the speaker--had "alligators" on his bad

days.

"No, he's gone under the table," replied Jim. "See him? Here, lend me a

cue, and I'll kill him."

"That's right," said the poor fellow; "kill him, and I'll leave you all

my money. He sat on the end of my bed last night--he won't let me

alone. Kill him now he's not looking."

Jim seized the cue and slashed about under the table with it.

"There--I've done it. I've cut his head off."

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" cried Mr Richards, bursting into tears.

"You shall have every penny of my money."

They left him crying quietly for joy. In a corner of the room a

saturnine-looking gentleman was standing stock still with his eyes

closed.

"Hullo!" said Jim, "I've not seen this one before. Who is he?"

"A new patient--a clergyman," replied Hughes; "he thinks he's dead.

Comes to life for his meals, though."

Jim laughed--the careless laugh of thoughtless youth--but the next

moment his face became grave. He felt very much for these afflicted

souls, and they seemed to know it, for in their half-witted way they

loved "Mr James."

After passing through several corridors, Jim and Hughes arrived at a

room that was provided with a thick door in which was a grille of the

old-fashioned kind. Within could be seen a red-faced, burly man, his

clothing much disarranged, and his eyes wildly gleaming.

A stalwart attendant, with a bandage round his neck, was standing by,

watching the occupant of the padded room through the little bars of the

grille.

"I'll go in and have a chat with him," said Jim.

"You'd better not, sir," returned Hughes; "you'll take your life in your

hands if you do."

"Nonsense!" cried Jim. "Open the door, Smith!"

The attendant Smith--he who had been so unfortunate as to earn the

major's ill-will--shot back the bolt, and, as Jim stepped into the cell,

made haste to secure the door behind him.

The patient fixed a glare of bovine ferocity on his caller as Jim

advanced towards him.

"Morning, major! Men pretty fit this morning?"

The major had been about to hurl himself at the young fellow when Jim's

words stirred an old memory in his inflamed brain.

"What's that to you--who are you?" he growled.

"The officer commanding the expedition," rapped out Jim.

The major's manner changed on the instant.

"The men are as well as can be expected, sir, considering the beastly

bad water. Three more down with enteric to-day."

"Dear--dear!" exclaimed Jim, "that's bad. Well, major, we must hope for

the best--hope for the best. And how are you yourself?"

"I think I've got a touch of the sun, sir," said the major, "but I

daresay it'll pass off. I've been feeling queer up here for several

days now," he added, touching his forehead.

"What you want, major," said Jim, "is a good sound sleep. You're

looking overworked. Now just you lie down on your mattress yonder and

have a nap. You've been doing very well lately, major, and I shall

mention you in my despatches."

The poor madman's face glowed with delight.

"I'm very much obliged to you, sir," he said, with a world of gratitude

in his voice.

"Well," said Jim, "I must be going on. Now, do as I say, and have some

sleep."

"Thank you, sir, I think I will," said the major, turning towards the

mattress with touching docility.

Unfortunately, however, he happened to look round at the grating, and in

an instant his face and manner changed. Jim, following the lunatic's

glance, saw that the attendant Smith was still peering through the bars.

"Get away from there--sharp!" he shouted, but even as he spoke the major

hurled himself against the staunch oaken portal, and tore at it with his

nails as he yelled imprecations at the object of his hate.

Jim stepped swiftly forward and laid his hand on the madman's shoulder.

The major turned like an infuriated beast, his fingers twitching, and

his whole body convulsed with fury.

"I told you to get some sleep, major," said Jim, imperiously, "and I

expect my orders to be obeyed."

For a terrible moment the attendants held their breath. But Jim looked

the major coolly in the face. Had he flinched the very slightest, the

madman would have been at his throat.

Still steadily eyeing the man, Jim pointed to the mattress, and slowly,

doubtfully, the major crept towards it and lay down. In two minutes he

was slumbering like a child.

Jim made sure that the major was fast asleep before he softly approached

the door. Hughes let him out and shot the bolt back into its socket

with all possible speed.

"The Doctor himself couldn't have done it better, sir," said the head

attendant, with heartfelt admiration. "Will you come and see the

cricket now, sir?" he added.

The milder of the asylum's inmates were trying conclusions with bat and

ball in an adjoining field. Jim, on arriving at the scene of play,

displaced one of the attendants who was acting as wicket-keeper, and

took up his position behind the sticks.

The ball came swiftly, and the batsman--a tall, broad-shouldered,

ill-tempered-looking fellow--snicked it into Jim's ready hands.

"_How's that?_" roared the Long 'Un; but the attendant umpiring at the

other end, being a diplomat, gave it as "Not out."

As Jim trundled the ball back to the bowler, the big batsman turned to

him and testily observed, "Please don't ask a question of that sort

again. I don't like it."

"My dear man," said Mortimer, assuming that he was addressing one of the

most reasonable inmates of the place, "if I catch you at the wicket,

you're out. That's only fair."

But the batsman merely glared at him sulkily.

The next ball was a still more palpable catch at the wicket, and was

securely held.

"_How's that?_" inquired Jim, who didn't believe in showing the white

feather. The words had hardly left his lips when the batsman swung

round and aimed a terrific blow at his head--a blow that Jim, by great

agility, just managed to avoid.

"I told you," said the batsman, with dignity, "that I did not like you

saying that."

The ever-watchful Hughes hurried up.

"They're only satisfied by being clean bowled, Mr James," he explained,

and then proceeded to administer a few words of rebuke to Jim's

assailant, who looked duly reproved.

The Long 'Un was meditating trying an over--with the laudable object of

getting the big batsman out in a way he would quite understand--when a

page-boy came hurrying towards him with a message to the effect that the

Doctor wished to speak to him at the telephone.

So Jim had perforce to postpone his over, and left the field little

dreaming that certain words which would shortly come to him across the

wire were destined to affect his after-career in a remarkable manner.

*CHAPTER II.*

*OVER THE TELEPHONE.*

Old Dr Mortimer was, in every sense of the word, a hard man. Of massive

build and handsome countenance, upright and commanding in presence, with

a clear brain, a will of iron, and a resonant, penetrating voice, his

was at once a dominating and notable personality.

Dr Mortimer's sphere of action, it is true, was limited and local; but

if, by the accident of circumstances, his lot had been cast in a

military or political arena, he would assuredly have risen to a high

place, and possibly cut his initials on the rock of fame.

Beginning on nothing, the Doctor had fought his way up to his present

position by dint of sheer perseverance and strength of head. His

indomitable will had cleared away all obstacles, and now he was seventy,

hale and hearty, a man of wealth and a county magnate.

But Dame Fortune, while she gives with one hand, takes away with the

other. The Doctor was now childless, and grandchildless, too, save for

James. This man of iron had brought weaklings into the world; his wife

had died before she was thirty, and as his riches increased, his brood

had one by one faded into the grave. So now, when James--the only son

of his eldest son--was in London, Dr Mortimer sat at his mahogany every

night all alone--proud, rich, powerful, feared, obeyed on the

instant--but alone.

His assistant, M'Pherson, a trustworthy, middle-aged Scotsman, of no

especial brilliance, but conscientious to a hair, lived at the asylum

and took most of his meals with the patients.

The Doctor had made his will years since, and James was absolutely heir

to all he had, save for trifling legacies to his executors and such

persons as Hughes, his cook, coachman, and gardeners. Every stick and

stone was to be Jim's, and Jim knew it.

But the Doctor was not satisfied with his grandson. Throughout Jim's

five years at Rugby the general tenor of his reports had been: "Has done

well on the whole, but might have done much better." His hospital

career had been of a very similar character. Jim, though of a lazy

temperament, had, nevertheless, won warm encomiums from great surgeons

for his skill with the knife. Sir Savile Smart, the renowned specialist

in abdominal matters, had written to Dr Mortimer--who was an old friend

of his--in high praise of Jim. But there, as ever, was the qualifying

clause: "Your lad can do wonders when he likes, which isn't always."

And then again Jim was given to bursts of rowdyism, accounts of which

had trickled down to Threeways, where Jim was regarded as a lovable,

harum-scarum youth, who would come into all the Doctor's money, "and so

it would be all right." This meant that his wild ways didn't matter--he

would never have to earn his living. Besides, he was only a

youngster--he would sober down in time. He wouldn't go on fighting

policemen all his life--"and so it would be all right."

At dinner on the preceding evening the Doctor, warmed by the generous

grape, had been in an affable, not to say confiding mood, and it would

have been well for Jim had this been their final conversation ere he

departed for town, for the Doctor was in a high good-humour when they

lit their bedroom candles, and even went so far as to pat his grandson

on the back in a manner that was quite affectionate.

Jim guessed that this amiable frame of mind would decamp with the

darkness, and his surmise proved correct, for when he got to the

telephone and took the receiver off its peg, he knew by the sound of the

Doctor's voice that his grandfather was in an irritable mood.

"Are you there, James?"

"Yes, sir."

"My carriage is waiting, and I must be off in a minute or two, but I

want to have a word with you before you go."

"Shall I come across?" suggested Jim,

"No, that will waste time, and I haven't much to say."

It occurred to the Long 'Un that what little his grandfather wished to

say would not be of an overwhelmingly genial character.

"I--ah--I received a bill this morning for a plate-glass window you

smashed in the Strand about six weeks ago," began the Doctor; "I suppose

you recollect it?"

"Seem to remember something of it," replied Jim.

"That's good of you. The bill is for twelve pounds."

"Those big shop windows run into money," hazarded Jim.

"Somewhat superfluous information," snapped the Doctor; "what I want to

say is that I won't pay any more of these bills--do you clearly

understand?"

"I do," said the Long 'Un.

"And, moreover, I won't have any more of your drunken frolics--it's high

time you stopped all that nonsense. I should also advise you to drop

the acquaintance of that disreputable reporter friend of yours--he seems

to have a bad influence on you--Coke, is that his name?"

Jim chuckled.

"What--Koko? Most harmless man on earth! Gets me out of scrapes, not

into them!"

A fresh grievance now occurred to the Doctor. "I am not at all

satisfied with the way you are working," he said.

"We dig in pretty hard at Matt's," replied Jim, quite truthfully.

"Yes--but how about your degree? I expect more than a mere

qualification from you."

"I'll read like a nigger this time, grandfather----"

"I'm glad to hear you say so," interrupted the Doctor, in a mollified

tone.

"Time and weather permitting," concluded Jim, indiscreetly.

A short, ill-tempered cough sounded through the telephone. The Doctor

was preparing his ultimatum; Jim's addendum gave him his cue.

"I suppose 'time and weather' mean such dissolute companions as Coker,

or whatever his absurd name is. Well, now, attend to me, James. I'm

not squeamish, but I expect you to pull up. I won't have any more

playing the fool, either at the hospital or down here. For instance,"

he added, with growing ire, "what on earth d'you mean by masquerading

about the high road in a dressing-gown?"

"I prefer ease to elegance," said Jim, cheekily.

"Well, sir," shouted the Doctor across the vibrating wire, "I don't

intend that my grandson shall be taken for one of my patients!"

"Why--who took me for one of them?" demanded Jim in amazement.

"The Countess of Lingfield."

"The who?" exclaimed Jim.

"The Countess of Lingfield. She spoke to you from her carriage half an

hour ago."

"By George!" Jim broke into a mellow laugh. "Was that a countess? I

say, grandfather, who was the pretty girl with her?"

"Her daughter," replied the Doctor; "and it was she who observed that

you were probably one of the 'harmless variety'!"

"Indeed!" said the Long 'Un, not quite so heartily.

"Yes, sir," proceeded the Doctor, his ire rising again, "and I was

placed under the ignominious necessity of having to admit that you were

my grandson."

"Awfully rough on you, grandpa."

The Doctor was evidently fuming at the other end of the telephone.

"So," was his next utterance, "I shall be obliged if you will behave

more like a reasonable being in future. No more window-smashing, no

more fighting with policemen, and no more drinking. I give you fair

warning that if you cut any more capers, I'll stop supplies, and you'll

have to get on as best you can by yourself. Good-bye!"

"Half a moment, sir! I should like to see you again before I go."

"I can't wait."

"Can't you spare a minute, sir?"

"No--I've wasted too much time already talking to you. Now remember!

Any more nonsense, and you shan't handle another penny of mine.

Good-bye!"

Jim let the receiver go with a bang, and a few moments later was flying

across the road, his dressing-gown waving gracefully behind him. But he

was too late. He arrived at "Pangora" just in time to see the carriage

vanishing through the gates of the drive leading to a by-road on the

opposite side of the house.

*CHAPTER III.*

*KOKO REPORTS PROGRESS.*

Mr Mortimer was seated at breakfast. His rooms were situated in a

terrace leading out of a fashionable thoroughfare in Pimlico, but the

terrace itself was not at all fashionable, consisting, as it did,

chiefly of lodging-houses resorted to by medical students, clerks,

actors, and ladies' maids and men-servants out of places. The keeper of

the house was a burly, strident-voiced, strong-willed lady of forty,

rough but not unkindly, who always gave Jim what she liked (as opposed

to what _he_ liked) for breakfast.

This morning--the morning after his arrival in town from

Eastfolkshire--his first meal was composed of cold eggs-and-bacon and

cold tea--not a deliriously appetising repast, 'tis true; but then, if a

man is summoned to breakfast at nine and eventually crawls into his

sitting-room at a quarter past ten, what can he expect? And Mrs Freeman

was not the sort of lady to keep anything warm for lie-abed lodgers.

Having nibbled half a cold egg, Mortimer turned his attention to the

loaf, and eventually breakfasted off bread and marmalade. The butter he

eschewed, as it appeared to claim first cousinship with train-oil. As

the tea was by this time black, and bitter to the taste, Jim sought to

appease his thirst with a bottle of beer from the rickety sideboard.

The cork of the bottle being in a state of crumbling decrepitude,

Mortimer had to delay his drink while, with the help of a spoon and some

expletives, he fished the broken fragments out of the beer.

"A picture," observed a quiet voice, while Jim was thus engaged,

"calculated to melt the heart of any maid."

"Hullo--_Koko!_"

"While I object to that nickname," gravely responded the little man who

had entered, as he removed his hat and displayed an almost entirely bald

head, "I am compelled to reply to it. Well, how are you, young feller?"

Jim replied in a testy murmur that he felt all right, and proceeded to

drag more fragments of cork out of the beer. Meanwhile, the man who had

come in laid his hat, gloves, and stick on the far end of the table, and

then arranged his tie in front of the mirror over the mantelpiece.

"Doocid dude you are, Koko!" said Jim, looking at his friend over the

edge of the glass; "why," springing up, "_you've grown!_"

Now, as the caller was but an inch or two over five feet in height,

there was every reason why he should have felt congratulated by this

remark.

"No," he said, in a resigned voice, "I haven't grown--I've only got some

of my fat off."

As Jim towered high above his friend--his height, if anything,

accentuated by the clinging folds of his dressing-gown--the little man

gazed admiringly up at the Long 'Un, and deep down in his heart perhaps,

heaved a little sigh because of his own smallness. For, alas! Koko had

finished growing. He was thirty, and already bald; he was years older

than Jim--so was it likely he would grow now? And this was why, and

quite naturally, George Somers, reporter on a sporting newspaper--this

little, bald, quiet, unassuming man--had come, at first, to notice Jim

Mortimer, and afterwards, when they got to know one another, to like

him, and, finally, when they became close friends, to give him his whole

heart in that sterling regard which men sometimes have for men, when

each is sure that the other is worthy of such unflinching esteem.

Koko was neat and dapper in his dress, with nothing awry about him. He

was excellently and attractively tidy, with the tidiness that little

people have. So well proportioned was he, that his small stature never

seemed ridiculous, even when viewed in close juxtaposition to the Long

'Un's great length. Koko was, in countenance, well favoured, with a

small, neatly trimmed dark moustache, and rather large, mild eyes.

Though generally impassive, his face would at times light up with a

wonderful, sudden smile--a smile that it did you good to look upon, a

smile that told you that Koko's nature was all gold.

And Koko, you must know, had for some years been inspired with the

feeling that it was his particular mission in this world to look after

the Long 'Un. Though he had many other duties, and one other hobby, he

always found time to keep an almost maternal eye on Jim Mortimer.

"By the way, old boy," said Koko, after a time, "have you unpacked?"

"Only my pyjamas and dressing-gown," said Jim.

"Shall I lend you a hand?"

Mortimer gave a deep laugh.

"Anybody would think I was a blooming kid, Koko, by the way you talk,"

he said.

"So you are," said Koko, as he made his way to the adjoining bedroom,

"in a great many things."

In a leisurely manner the Long 'Un followed after his friend, who was

already bending over the unstrapped portmanteau. Mortimer was in a lazy

mood, the beer he had consumed having filled him with a feeling of

lethargy. Sitting on the end of his bed, he smoked and watched Koko as

the latter endeavoured to find his way through the hurly-burly before

him--as he took the socks out of the boots in which it was the Long

'Un's custom to pack them, rescued a tin of tooth-powder from the toe of

a dancing pump--wherein it had been wedged to ensure safe

travelling--fished a razor and shaving-brush out of the sponge-bag, and

a sixpenny popular novel from the folds of a fancy waistcoat, put

everything into its proper place in the chest of drawers or wardrobe,

and at length paused, his task accomplished, in a somewhat flushed and

heated condition.

"First-rate valet you'd make, Koko," said the Long 'Un, ungratefully.

Koko, without replying, pushed the empty portmanteau under the bed, and

then washed his hands.

"I must be off now," he said simply.

"Oh, hang on a bit," returned Mortimer, as they went back to the

sitting-room.

"Must go," said Koko, smoothing his silk hat with his coat

sleeve--"work."

"Where?"

"Billiards in the afternoon, fight in the evening."

And with that he quietly departed.

Nobody would have dreamed that this quiet little man with the bald head

had attended and described in nimble boxing terminology some of the

fiercest combats that have ever been held at the National Milling Club;

nobody would have dreamed that the Mr George Somers, whose hobby was the

collecting of old, worm-eaten volumes, and whose initials, "G.S.," were

so familiar to the readers of the _Book Hunter_, was a well-known figure

in swimming-baths, gymnasiums, billiard saloons, football, and cricket

grounds the country over, gun clubs, lacrosse clubs, tennis clubs, and

weight-lifting clubs. Yet the little man who nosed round bookstalls in

Holywell Street (that was), Wych Street (that was), and St Martin's Lane

(that is), in search of rare first editions, was identical with the

little man who accompanied Jim on many of his freebooting expeditions

"up west," and with the little man who attended sporting functions of

every kind all the year round, rain or shine, in the proud capacity of

the _Sporting Mail's_ "special representative."

When Koko, some hours later, on his return from the billiard match,

again looked in on the Long 'Un, he found Mr Mortimer still in his

dressing-gown lolling over a book. The table bore the _debris_ of Jim's

lunch.

As Koko entered the room, Mortimer threw away his book and yawned

sluggishly. Koko walked gently up to him, and stood by the arm of his

chair.

"I've got a bit of news for you, Jim."

"Go ahead with it."

"I've found out who that girl is."

"_What?_"

The Long 'Un was out of his chair in a second, all life and fire and

eagerness; the transformation was complete.

Koko laughed inwardly; he never laughed out loud.

"Yes, I've found out about her. She's one of the girls at the Milverton

Street post-office--she's the girl that takes in the telegrams."

"Are you sure?" exclaimed Jim.

"Certain," said Koko, selecting a cigarette from his little silver case.

Mortimer was struck dumb with delight. For, ever since Koko and he,

whilst taking tea at an ABC shop near St Matthew's Hospital, had on

three successive occasions observed an extremely handsome girl at a

neighbouring table, the Long 'Un had been burning to know the young

lady. That was before he went home for a month's vacation. It would

appear that Koko, faithful as ever to his friend's interests, had not

been idle during that month.

"Come on," exclaimed Jim, "let's go and send off some telegrams. She'll

at least be obliged to look at us. That'll be something, won't it?"

"Yes, that'll be something," said Koko; "all right, go and get dressed."

The Long 'Un disappeared into the bedroom, and presently emerged in

proper attire.

"You'd better wear your tail coat and top-hat, or I may cut you out,"

suggested Koko.

With a bellow of laughter, the Long 'Un hurried into his bedroom again,

issuing therefrom a minute later clad in the kind of coat and the kind

of hat affected by Koko.

"Now," said Koko, as they left Jim's sitting-room, "we start level."

*CHAPTER IV.*

*A HANDMAID TO MERCURY.*

Mortimer was in such haste to reach Milverton Street, that it was all

Koko could do, with his short legs, to keep pace with him.

"I shall send one to myself to start with," explained Jim, "and then I

shall go in at intervals and send wires to you, and the fellows at the

hospital."

"Won't you find it rather expensive?"

"My boy, what is money _for_?" exclaimed the Long 'Un with enthusiasm.

"Could I employ it better than in----"

"Yes, a good deal better," retorted Koko; "couldn't you go in and buy

halfpenny stamps, and just _glance_ over in her direction?"

"The stamp girl wouldn't like that," returned Mortimer with frank

vanity; "but, I say, old man, isn't all this reckoning up of the cost

rather sordid?"

"Well, perhaps it is," agreed Koko; "but apart from that, I don't quite

see how you can effect anything. She doesn't look the sort of girl you

can even discuss the weather with, unless you have been properly

introduced to her."

"Never mind that for the present," said Jim. "Try and suggest a suitable

telegram for me to send to myself."

"Do you wish to impress her with the fact that you have means?"

"Just as well," said Jim; "I shall have a tidy amount some day, you

know."

"Then wire and tell me to put a pot of money for you on a horse."

"And then?"

"Make the next something about shares--'_Buy me ten thousand Canadian

Pacifics_,' let us say."

"Well, and what's the third wire to be about? I can't put money on gees

or buy shares every time."

"Make her jealous. Send a wire to '_Maggie Mortimer_' at your Pimlico

address, and put '_Best love, darling_,' at the end of it," suggested

Koko, demurely.

The Long 'Un stopped dead, and faced round on his small companion.

"Look here, Koko," he exclaimed, "I've taken your advice in

several--er--affairs of this sort, and they've all turned out badly."

"In each case it was your own fault," said Koko.

"In each case you really managed the business, and it came to nothing.

The fact is, you don't know anything about women. You may be all very

well at a trotting match----"

"All right," said Koko, shortly, as he turned on his heel, "you can

manage this by yourself."

"I apologise," cried Jim.

"In that case," said Koko, relenting, "I'll come. But I don't want you

to round on me if it's a failure."

"I promise I won't," the Long 'Un declared, and so once more Koko

stretched his short legs to the utmost in order to keep in step with

Jim.

Miss Dora Maybury was quite one of the handsomest girls that ever

obtained employment--by competitive examination--in the London

Post-Office. It was, therefore, not at all surprising that the

susceptible Jim Mortimer should have been so affected by her beauty.

Dora's hair was chestnut brown; the dreamy depths of her dark eyes were

fringed o'er with long lashes, from beneath whose graceful shadow she

gazed upon the world with an expression that was at once distracting and

unconsciously coquettish; her lips closed in exquisite lines upon teeth

that were as white as you could wish them to be; and the whole form of

her face--from forehead to chin--was such as the most censorious judge

of a human countenance would not have desired to be other than what it

was. Dora was tall, too, and of graceful figure--in brief, she was as

comely a maid as you could well behold in a year's journeying.

It sometimes occurs that a girl brought up in luxury finds herself

suddenly plunged into genteel poverty. Such was the case with Dora.

Not so very long since she had lived in a great house, and ridden in

carriages; then Fortune, in a sudden freak of fancy, had turned her back

upon her, and, as if by a sweep of a fairy's wand, the mansion had

changed to much humbler quarters in London, and the carriages into penny

and halfpenny omnibuses.

It was natural that the unusually prepossessing girl behind the counter

of the post-office in Milverton Street should attract a good deal of

attention. Those who had occasion to send away telegrams pretty

often--busy, preoccupied men though most of them were--soon came to

notice this particular clerk's refined voice and manner. She had not

been engaged in post-office work long enough to have acquired the

slap-dash, curt style of the lady-clerk who has sat at the telegraphic

seat of custom for several years; she was still sufficiently of an

amateur, indeed, to display some human interest in many of the messages

which were handed in to her. Not that a telegraph clerk is supposed to

do this; but Dora could not forbear a smile when she was counting the

many words of a wire from a love-sick swain to his lady-love, nor could

she feel quite indifferent when a telegram bearing the direst

ill-news--news of grave illness or even death--passed through her hands.

But we do not wish to have it supposed that we are holding up Dora

Maybury as an angel of pity--or, indeed, as a perfect character in any

sense. When business was slack, and Dora had time to think about

herself, a pettish and discontented expression might often have been

observed to flit across her pretty face. As a post-office clerk, Dora

felt that she was not filling her proper niche in the world--and

probably a good many other people thought so too.

There were five other girls behind the counter of the Milverton Street

post-office, in addition to telegraphists in the room above, several

male clerks, and a small gang of telegraph boys. Dora's great friend

among the other girls was Rose Cook, a fat, good-natured, sentimental

creature, who was at present desperately in love with a gentleman she

had met at a dance--a Mr Somers, who wrote for the newspapers. Mr Somers

was a friend of some friends of Miss Cook's, and that was how she had

come to meet him, and to hear of his very tall friend, Mr Mortimer. But

it should be added that Mr Somers had seen very little of Miss Cook, had

no idea of the passion that consumed her, and was certainly wholly

ignorant of the fact that she was employed in the Milverton Street

post-office. He had only been in this particular post-office once in

his life, and then he had had eyes for none save the young lady who took

in the telegrams.

Now, earlier in this very day that witnessed the journey of the Long 'Un

and Koko to Milverton Street, Miss Cook had been bemoaning the fact that

"Mr Somers" had actually been in the post-office a few days previously,

and had not so much as glanced at her.

"He was looking at _you_--they all do!" she had exclaimed, while

discussing the matter at lunch with Dora.

Dora made no reply, but she was thinking over Miss Cook's complimentary

complaint later that day, when a very tall man entered the post-office

and proceeded to one of the compartments where telegram forms and

pointless pencils attached to pieces of string were supplied for the

convenience of the public.

Dora noticed that the tall man occasionally glanced towards the door,

and presently began to beckon to somebody who was presumably standing in

the doorway. After a time the person beckoned to entered the

post-office, and, as he did so, Miss Cook, who was sitting next to Dora,

gave vent to a little gasp.

"What's the matter, dear?" inquired Dora.

"That--that's--Mr Somers!" exclaimed Miss Cook.

"And who is the other?" asked Dora, who was not greatly impressed by Mr

Somers's appearance.

"That must be his friend, Mr Mortimer."

Quite unconscious of the fact that their identity was no secret in the

post-office, the Long 'Un and Koko proceeded to compile telegrams.

"What a lot of forms Mr Mortimer is tearing up!" whispered Dora to her

friend.

"Evidently sending a telegram to a girl," replied Miss Cook, who was

still looking agitated, and whose thoughts were naturally trending in a

sentimental direction.

Dora smiled. The sight of Koko standing on tip-toe, and craning his

head over the Long 'Un's arm, was certainly smile-inspiring. So Dora

smiled.

Presently Mortimer withdrew his head and shoulders from the compartment,

and turned towards the counter. It should be added that the various

communications suggested by Koko had all been condemned as worthless by

the Long 'Un, who, with some pains, had finally evolved the following

bald and uninspiring message: "_Annie arrives nine to-night. Please

meet. Jim._"

Koko turned towards the counter at the same time as Jim, and as he did

so his face underwent a striking change. For there, gazing ardently

upon him, sat Miss Rose Cook. In a flash Koko took in the situation,

and saw that here was Jim's chance. He could introduce Jim straight

away.

It was too late to stop Jim from sending the telegram, for he was

already handing in the message and gazing with undisguised admiration at

Miss Maybury. And as Miss Maybury bent her beautiful head over the

form, and with a swiftly moving--far too swiftly moving--pencil,

proceeded to count the words thereon, Jim's heart thumped wildly against

his ribs, Jim's brain seemed to reel, and Jim fell head over

ears--hopelessly, irretrievably---IN LOVE.

*CHAPTER V.*

*JIM REJOICES.*

Five minutes later Jim Mortimer was sailing down Milverton Street in a

state of mild delirium. Instead of having to wait for months for an

opportunity of becoming acquainted with the girl whose face had so

captivated his fancy, the whole thing had been accomplished in a briefer

time than it takes to write of it.

Koko it was who had effected this desirable consummation--Koko who had

offered up himself on the altar of friendship. Koko saw as plain as

daylight that Miss Cook was exceedingly pleased to see him, and knew

that the introduction he contemplated would result in his having to meet

with undesirable frequency a lady in whom he took no interest whatever.

A few words of greeting were exchanged; then Miss Cook--who had an axe

of her own to grind--introduced him to Miss Maybury, and then, as a

matter of course, Koko made Mortimer known to the two girls.

Dora Maybury! So that was her name! What a sweet name! _Dora_! The

Long 'Un dwelt lovingly on those two dear syllables.

He proceeded to murmur the name in an abstracted manner until they

reached St Matthew's Hospital. Here Jim's hosts of friends greeted him

in the heartiest fashion, and bottled beer flowed freely in the

students' common-room. Koko knew many of Jim's friends, and always

enjoyed himself when in the company of the light-hearted happy-go-lucky

crew at "Matt's." Jim sat down and rattled off a comic song on a piano

which, by reason of much hard usage, had long since lost its purity of

tone. Jim played cleverly by ear; and, as he could sing songs by the

score, he was consequently the star artiste of "Matt's."

"Chorus, boys!" he roared, and the boys, forming up in a line behind a

red-haired youth from Wales--with a voice worthy of his

nationality--pranced round the table as they let go the taking refrain

at the top of their voices:--

Oh, follow the man from Cook's!

The wonderful man from Cook's!

And, whether your stay be short or long,

You'll see the sights, for he can't go wrong.

Oh, follow the man from Cook's!

The wonderful man from Cook's!

For it's twenty to one that there's plenty of fun,

If you follow the man from Cook's!

The last words of the chorus were ringing out into the quadrangle, when

a porter entered the room and informed the pianist that a lady wished to

see him.

"Lady!" exclaimed Jim.

"Yes, sir; wishes to see you very particular."

"Go on, Long 'Un!" yelled the students, "next verse."

But Jim's head was filled with romantic ideas. What if, for some

strange, inexplicable reason, it should happen to be Dora! True, it was

not very likely, but he had read in books of things like this happening.

"Half a second, you men," he said; "I've got to see somebody."

"Girl?" queried the red-haired youth from Wales.

But Jim (hoping it was) hurried out without replying to him. He found

his fair visitor to be no other than Mrs Freeman, his landlady.

"Mr Mortimer, sir," she said, in some agitation, "this came for you just

now, sir. I hope it's not bad news, sir."

For in the homely eyes of the landlady a telegram generally loomed large

as a portent of ill. Jim opened the flimsy envelope, and read:

"Annie arrives nine to-night. Please meet. Jim."

Until this moment he had forgotten all about the wire he had sent

himself. Now it had reached him in all its imbecile meaninglessness.

Mrs Freeman regarded his face anxiously.

"Not bad news, I 'ope, sir?"

Jim crushed the thing into his pocket somewhat impatiently.

"No; it's all right, thanks, Mrs Freeman. It's--it's nothing. Thanks

for bringing it."

And so Mrs Freeman had to retrace her steps to Pimlico, feeling (it must

be confessed) somewhat disappointed at the non-tragic contents of the

message she had so carefully conveyed to the hospital.

Jim imbibed more beer and sang more songs, and finally, when the party

broke up, dragged Koko off to dine at the Trocadero. All through the

meal Jim was excessively merry, his bursts of laughter causing many of

the diners to glance curiously in his direction. Koko, knowing by long

experience that he could do nothing to stem Jim's methods of letting off

steam, decided that his place to-night must be by Mortimer's side; so he

hastily scribbled a note asking a colleague to report the fight at the

National Milling Club for which he (Koko) had been booked, and

despatched it to the _Sporting Mail_ office by a special messenger.

Koko felt easier in his mind when he had done this; he saw that Jim

intended to make a night of it, and that his programme would be a

variegated one.

Dinner over, the Long 'Un hailed a hansom, and, Koko having stowed

himself away inside, took his place with a brief "Exhibition!" to the

driver.

"_Dora!_" breathed Jim, as the cab sped across the Circus and headed for

Piccadilly.

"I expect she likes nice, quiet men," said Koko.

"Not she," returned Jim with conviction.

"A nice, quiet, home-loving man--not a man who shouts, and swears, and

behaves like an over-grown schoolboy," persisted Mr George Somers.

"You're very severe to-night, my bald-headed young friend," quoth the

Long 'Un, with supreme good-humour.

"Never mind about _my_ head," said Koko; "think what _yours_ will be

like in the morning."

"But it is to-night!" cried the Long 'Un, "it is to-night, and I mean to

go the whole hog. Let the morning take care of itself. It is to-night;

I have seen her; I _know_ her; and now I am enjoying myself very much."

"You are also," added Koko, "on the verge of intoxication."

"Very near the verge," whooped the Long 'Un.

The cab was approaching Hyde Park Corner when Jim raised the little

trap-door above his head.

"I've changed my mind, cabby; drive back to the Empire."

"Empire? Yessir!"

"You'll be chucked out of there to a certainty," said Koko,

despairingly.

"Not me," said Jim.

But at the music-hall Mortimer was politely refused admittance by a man

as tall as himself, and considerably broader.

"No, sir; you gave us trouble the last time you were here. I haven't

forgotten you, sir."

"But that was Boat Race night," protested Jim.

"No matter, sir; can't let you in."

And the official squared his great shoulders and glanced at another

official, almost as big as himself, who was standing a few yards away.

Simultaneously Koko gave Jim's sleeve a tug.

"Come on," he said; "no good getting into a row."

Reluctantly Jim turned on his heel; he was in a mood for battle, and he

had an idea that, big as the official was, he (Jim) could have rendered

a pretty good account of himself had it come to a scrap.

The cab they had employed was lingering in the vicinity of the entrance.

Jim hailed it and again gave the order "Exhibition." And in the course

of thirty minutes or so, Koko and he found themselves passing through

the turnstiles at that popular resort.

Very pleasant it was, too, sauntering through the bazaars and

make-believe old streets, and round the band-stands, while eye and ear

were charmed with colour and music respectively, and the promenading

multitude laughed and chattered, forgetting the day's cares in a spell

of enjoyable indolence.

But Jim was bent on celebrating the great event of the day--his

introduction to Miss Maybury. He was desirous of applying more

rebellious liquor to his young blood, and intimated the fact to a little

Swiss waiter.

"_Dora!_" Jim gave the toast and drained his glass at a gulp. Up came

Carlo again with a smile of appreciation. "As before," said Jim, and

again toasted Dora.

Just then a pale, well-dressed young man, passing by in the company of

two ladies, trod on Jim's outstretched foot. Jim gave vent to an

exclamation, but the doer of the harm simply glanced over his shoulder

without vouchsafing an apology.

"Why don't you look after your feet, sir!" cried Jim, angrily. To do

him justice, he did not notice the presence of the ladies.

The perambulating crowd was thick just there, and the proprietor of the

feet alluded to was brought to a standstill close to Jim by people

coming in the opposite direction.

"It is never nice here," he observed to one of his companions in a tone

evidently intended to reach Jim's ears, "on early closing nights."

For all Jim knew, the man who had trodden on his toes was making this

remark to another man, but Koko had noticed the ladies, and now

perceived that while one of them was regarding Jim with haughty

disfavour, the other kept her face turned resolutely towards the

bandstand.

"I'll show you what sort of a shop-boy I am!" exclaimed Jim, in a fury,

and was jumping up when his leg got into difficulties with the little

round table at which he was sitting, the result being that he fell over

and broke the back of the chair he was occupying. In his struggle to

retain his balance he swept the glasses off the table and smashed them,

and, when the little Swiss waiter requested payment for the goods,

rudely declined to give any compensation.

When the waiter beckoned to a policeman, men sitting at neighbouring

tables rose to their feet, evidently expecting trouble. People in the

vicinity stopped promenading, in order to look on. They talked about

what followed for days afterwards.

The constable was not one of the gentlest of his species. He asked Jim

for his name and address, and Jim produced his card; then the policeman

told him he must leave the Exhibition, and, as Jim appeared reluctant to

obey this order, gave him a push in the direction of the nearest exit.

Now, the policeman, regarding Jim's long, slim form, had not anticipated

much trouble from this customer. How was he to know that Mr James

Mortimer (that being the name on the card) had a marvellous way of

hitting straight from the shoulder? Rough and unscientific he might be,

but his blows came pat like a donkey's kicks, and hurt almost as much.

When the policeman had picked himself up and blown his whistle, the

bystanders fairly tingled with excitement. They saw a little man urging

the tall one to submit quietly, and they saw the tall man shake off the

little man as one would brush away a fly. The tall man's hat had fallen

off, and the little man was holding it. The tall man was a good-looking

fellow, the bystanders remarked, and as he drew himself up, and glared

defiance at the approaching enemy, he reminded certain spectators of

some heroic subject in sculpture or painting. Of course, this was

because they were inclined to be romantic. The bulk of those present

saw in Jim merely a young man the worse for drink and spoiling for a

fight.

A burly sergeant strode up.

"Now, then, none of this nonsense," he said roughly.

_Crack_! That peculiar straight left met him on the jaw, and the

sergeant collapsed on to the gravel. Two more policemen rushed at Jim.

Again the long arms shot out. One policeman fell, and the other

staggered. Jim followed the latter up and delivered the _coup de

grace_. At that moment Jim felt a muscular hand gripping his neck. He

lashed round furiously, then closed with his antagonist, and they fell

among the chairs. Jim was on top, and wrenched himself free as a fifth

policeman charged at him. A bit of a boxer was this man, young and

active, and Jim and he hammered each other with the lustiness of

schoolboys. Up and down among the chairs they went, and then Jim,

seeing an opening, got home on the point, and turned swiftly to receive

the sixth policeman, an enormous fellow who was unfortunately given to

over-much beer. He hit Jim on the chest, and Jim gasped; then he hit at

Jim again, and Jim, dodging the blow, retaliated with a sledge-hammer

slap across the back of the big man's neck. The big man clutched at a

table, and Jim hit him in the spine and upset man and table. Then three

policemen, sore and furious, rushed at Jim together, and there was Jim's

close-clipped poll towering above them, and there were Jim's long arms

dealing out donkey kicks, and leaving marks every time. And then Jim

retired in good order, face and fists to the foe, towards the buffet,

and then, suddenly altering his tactics, he put his head down and butted

the middle man of the trio in the stomach, and so made his way through

them, and ran into the burly sergeant, who hit at Jim with his

truncheon, but missed him, and got a crashing blow in the mouth by way

of exchange. And that was Jim's last good donkey kick, for one of them

got him by the leg, another hit him over the hip with his truncheon, and

next moment Jim was rolling about the gravel with four of them clinging

to him. And, of course, he at length surrendered, and was marched off

between two of the policemen to the police-station, the faithful Koko

following a few yards behind to bail him out.

*CHAPTER VI.*

*THE DOCTOR KEEPS HIS WORD.*

The whole fight did not last two minutes. It was short, sharp, and, to

sport-loving members of the crowd, very sweet. Certain pugilistic souls

among the visitors to the Exhibition went home that night and dreamt

about it. Many of the women, it is true, shuddered, and clutched

convulsively at the arms of their male companions as Jim's mighty hits

went home and the policemen, by turn, bit the dust of the promenading

ground, but quite a number watched the combat with bright, marvelling

eyes, and lips parted half in admiration and half in horror.

For Jim looked very handsome and terrible in his fighting wrath. One

old gentleman who had come from his club dinner in evening dress to

listen to the band, returned to St James's Street chuckling with

delight. Numbers of times he repeated to himself, "A bonny lad--a bonny

lad!" and actually, instead of going home and to bed at a respectable

hour, as an old gentleman of his years and gouty tendencies should have

done, fought the battle over again at great length for the benefit of

some other old club fogies, and finally had to be helped into a cab--at

2 A.M.--still chuckling with wicked joy.

It was, of course, a tremendous output of nervous energy--accentuated by

the spirits he had imbibed--on Jim's part. It was a supreme effort, and

died out suddenly. That smash over the hip--a policeman's favourite

aiming-point--from the truncheon numbed him strangely, and when he fell,

his capture was an easy matter. There was no more fight left in him

when they led him off--he would have gone with entire docility, indeed,

without a hand being laid on him.

Arrived at the police-station, he was conducted into the charge-room and

placed in the narrow little dock facing the inspector's desk. The

inspector, a quiet-looking man, glanced up in a casual fashion and then

proceeded with the writing on which he was employed when they entered.

This done, he inquired what the charge was, and, on being informed of

its nature in the curt, unadorned phraseology of the man in blue,

entered the particulars on a charge-sheet that lay before him, and

finally allowed Koko to bail his friend out for L2.

Those who had witnessed the conflict would have been astonished by the

inspector's imperturbable, cool tone, as he asked his brief questions.

It was regarded as a matter-of-course case--youthful "medical "--too

much to drink--dispute with waiter--resisted police. All very

ordinary--very matter-of-course--nothing out of the way. The inspector

even said "Good-night, sir," as Jim left the charge-room with Koko;

previously the inspector had gazed at the ceiling as Jim presented a

sovereign to his two custodians, who also bade him a "Good-night, sir,"

in a manner which showed that they bore him not the slightest ill-will

on account of the hard usage they had received at his hands.

On the following day, Jim and Koko attended at the police-court and hung

about in a fusty corridor for two hours before the name "Mortimer" was

sharply called, and Jim, frock-coated, neatly gloved, and with a new hat

in his hand, walked into the dock. Then the sergeant who had taken part

in the fracas told his tale in the same unadorned manner of speech that

his subordinate had used on the previous night.

"Anything to say?" inquired the magistrate, glancing at Jim.

"Nothing, your worship," replied Jim, who had been previously warned by

Koko that "the less said the better" was a golden maxim to adopt on an

occasion like the present.

[Illustration: "I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY, YOUR WORSHIP."]

The magistrate, who for two hours had been hearing the usual sordid

charges--most of them associated with petty thefts and drunkenness--had

been somewhat interested by the sergeant's account of what Jim had done.

Now, as he looked at Jim's tall, lithe form, and fair, open countenance,

and noted Jim's gentlemanly bearing, he decided to give the young fellow

a seasonable word of advice.

"I am sorry to see you here, Mortimer," he said, "because a man of your

position, by acting as you have done, not only sets a bad example, but

runs the risk of imperilling the success of his future career. You have

rendered yourself liable to a term of imprisonment, and you know well

that if I were to inflict such a punishment on you the fact would act as

a serious obstacle to you hereafter, as you would not be allowed to fill

any responsible medical post were it known that you had been in prison.

It appears from the evidence that you were the worse for drink at the

time you resisted the police. I need hardly remind you of the view the

public take of a medical man who gives way to such habits. It means, in

the long run, utter ruin to him. As I said before, I should be acting

within my rights by sending you to prison, but as I understand that

after you had been taken into custody you gave the police no further

trouble, I shall only inflict a fine upon you. You will pay forty

shillings--and take care I don't see you here again."

Jim bowed. "I am greatly obliged to your worship," he said. Then, at a

sign from a policeman stationed near by, he quitted the dock, and,

having paid his fine, joined Koko in the corridor.

They lose no time in London police-courts. Hardly had Jim left the dock

than the name of "Hodgkins" was uttered by the magistrate's clerk,

repeated by the sergeant, bawled down the corridor by the constable at

the door, and echoed by other policemen lounging in the outer precincts

of the court.

"Hodgkins!"

"_Hodgkins!_"

"HODGKINS!"

As Jim joined Koko, a blear-eyed, decrepit old dame brushed past him at

a rapid hobble. She had to answer a summons for assaulting a neighbour

by striking her over the head with a fire-shovel. This, in fact, was

"Hodgkins."

As Jim glanced at the old creature he realised that this quarrelsome,

ill-favoured hag and he were companions in distress--united by a

law-breaking bond! He, inflamed by whisky, had fought six policemen;

she, supping cheap gin, had burst into a senile frenzy and set upon some

other hag with her claw-like nails and the weapon that came first to

hand. The same law applied to both of them--she, a rag-picker, and he,

the heir to a bountiful fortune and many smiling acres in Eastfolkshire.

"Pah!" he exclaimed, as he hastened to reach cleaner air, "let's get out

of this! Thank goodness _that's_ over!"

"No harm done," said Koko, cheerily. "I know the two men in the

reporters' box, and they both promised not to write a word about you."

"By George! that's jolly of them!" exclaimed the Long 'Un. "My

grand-guv'nor won't get to hear of it after all, then."

"It would have made a tasty little par," said Koko, with a pressman's

instinctive knowledge of what newspapers like.

"It would," said Jim. "I can imagine how it would have read."

"But they won't write a word. They're good sorts," said Koko.

And so the Long 'Un made his way back to Matt's, lighter, it is true, of

purse, but very much lighter of heart as well, than when he set out to

the police-court that morning.

News of Jim's display of pugilistic prowess had preceded him to the

hospital--for one of the students had been an eye-witness of the

battle--and he was saluted by the unruly crew there with acclamation.

But Jim still had the taste of the police-court air in his mouth, and

did not feel at all heroic. But for Koko's intervention his name would

have been in a good many papers on the following day, and perhaps a

briefer notice of "Hodgkins" and her misuse of domestic implements would

have followed the account of the young doctor's "disorderly conduct."

That day he went home early, and tried to do some reading. He ended up,

however, by going to a theatre with Koko. On the next evening he really

did do some reading, and this studious fit lasted for quite a week.

"The Long 'Un," said the red-haired student at Matt's, "is turning over

a new leaf. I will buy him a prize."

When Jim, on reaching the hospital next day, entered the students'

common-room, he found a neat package, addressed to himself, occupying a

prominent position on the mantelpiece. On opening the package he found

that it consisted of a nice little one-and-sixpenny book, of the kind

published by religious societies, entitled "Jim's Repentance: _The Story

of a Bad Boy Who Saw the Evils of His Ways._"

The red-haired youth took the precaution of putting the table between

himself and the Long 'Un ere he said: "Had to go through a catalogue

before I found a suitable prize for you, Jim. Girl in the shop helped

me."

Jim flung it at his head.

"Naughty, angry Jim!" said the red-haired student, reprovingly, as he

dodged the book. "I shall take your prize away from you now."

Presently Jim found himself at the piano, and a little later out in the

quad with the red-haired one and half-a-dozen others, "wondering what to

do."

Eventually they solved the problem by going to a music-hall and joining

vociferously in the choruses--it was one of those music-halls where the

audience _does_ join in the choruses--and the end of it was that Jim got

home sometime between one and two in the morning, feeling uncommonly

merry and not at all repentant.

But that was Jim's last night round the town with the Matt's lot. Even

while he was chirruping choruses, an epistle was winging its way towards

him by express train. He got that missive at breakfast time, and Koko,

who called in just then, found him looking thoughtful.

"Read that," he said to Koko. And Koko read as follows:--

"Pangora," Threeways,

Sept. 20th.

MY DEAR JAMES,--You may possibly remember that in the course of the

conversation I held with you over the telephone on the day of your

departure for town, I expressed myself quite plainly with regard to your

future conduct. My attention has to-day been drawn to a paragraph in

the local Liberal journal--I am, as you know, a Conservative in

politics--to the effect that a medical man named James Mortimer, who

gave his address as St Matthew's Hospital, behaved in a disgraceful

fashion at the Exhibition one night earlier in the month, and was

eventually fined forty shillings and severely reprimanded by the

magistrate. As I happen to know that you are the only Mortimer at St

Matthew's, and as I am aware of your liking for drunken brawls, I can

only conclude that you disregarded my injunctions at the first

opportunity that presented itself. I am obliged, therefore, to keep my

part of the compact by informing you that my doors are henceforth closed

to you, and that you need never look to me for another penny.

I am,

Your affectionate grandfather,

JOHN MORTIMER.

*CHAPTER VII.*

*SIR SAVILE'S OFFER.*

"But," said Koko as he handed the letter back to Jim, "how on earth did

your local rag get hold of it? I've seen both my friends since, and they

assured me they didn't write a line about you."

"I give it up," said Jim; "the fact remains that the old man has got

wind of it."

"But isn't this action on his part a bit sudden?" demanded Koko.

"He said he would," said Jim, munching a piece of watercress (Mrs

Freeman's unvarying Tuesday breakfast was ham and watercress), "but I

didn't think he meant it."

"Perhaps he doesn't mean it," said Koko, hopefully.

"I am very much afraid," returned Jim, "that he does, though. You see,

he was already wild with me, as he had had to stump up for that big

window I broke--you remember! Twelve quid--that was the bill. He told

me about it over the telephone. I wish I'd been able to have a square

talk with him, face to face; he wouldn't have been half so wild, I put

all this down to that rotten telephone."

"Don't quite perceive how it's to blame," said Koko.

"Don't you! Why, if he tackled me face to face, I could have filled him

up with all sorts of promises of reformation, and sent him off for his

drive feeling sorry that I was going away. Instead of which he went off

in a beastly huff. I should have reminded him--as touching the

window--that some fellows charge their paters and grandpaters hundreds

and even thousands. I should have explained that twelve pounds was a

very light let-off. Hang the telephone!"

"The question is," said Koko, "do you think he means it?"

"Yes," replied the Long 'Un, with conviction.

"Then," continued the other, "what are you going to do?"

"_I_ dunno! Turn sporting reporter very likely!"

"Well," said Koko, "with your knowledge of sporting matters you might be

able to earn about twelve and sixpence a week just now--say by reporting

football matches. That would hardly keep a man of your expensive

tastes."

Jim laughed.

"Couldn't I do the fights at the National?" he suggested.

"No, my boy; you've had no experience--of reporting, I mean. But,

seriously, Jim, can't you get a doctoring job?"

"I shall have a look round for something," said Jim.

Koko gazed at the ceiling.

"If it hadn't been for that girl," he mused sorrowfully, "this would

never have happened. You were off your head about her----"

"Absolutely!" agreed Jim.

Koko sighed. "Women are always at the bottom of man's undoing. Avoid

them in future, Jim."

"Not I," said Jim; "I'm not built that way."

"Well, you've lost any chance you had of getting this one," said Koko.

Jim's face fell.

"By George! I hadn't thought of that. I'm glad I didn't send that wire

about Canadian Pacifics. We shall meet on more level terms now."

"Upon my word," said Koko, "I think you are the most optimistic man I

have ever met. Here are you--disowned--kicked out--cut off without a

shilling by your grandfather--and you are still thinking----"

"I still hope," breathed Jim, devoutly.

Mr Somers walked towards the door. However, he turned back to say one

more thing.

"If, Jim, you should find it necessary to approach another kind of

relative----"

"I fear I shall find it necessary," sighed the Long 'Un.

"I was going to say," continued Koko, "that if you want to pawn

anything, _I'll_ pawn it for you. I can nip in easier than you." And

with that he went quietly on his way.

Having shaved and dressed, Jim set out, as a matter of course, for the

hospital. As he walked along he reviewed the situation, and the

awkwardness of his present plight became clearly apparent to him.

Yesterday he was the heir to a fortune and a flourishing practice. (The

asylum he left out of his calculations, as he was aware that a private

institution of this kind can now--according to the law of the land--only

descend from father to son, and on the death of the latter must cease to

exist.) To-day he was a young man of four-and-twenty, with a medical

qualification, various surgical implements, a small collection of

well-thumbed works relating to his craft, a sufficient wardrobe, and

some thirty shillings in cash. Thus provided, the world was before him,

and he was wondering what sort of a job he and the world would make of

it, when, as he blundered absent-mindedly round the corner of the street

in which St Matthew's Hospital was situated, he ran plump into the

stalwart form of Sir Savile Smart, the eminent specialist of whom

mention has already been made.

"What--_Mortimer_!"

"How do you do, Sir Savile?"

The great man's moustache hid a smile as he observed: "And how many more

policemen's helmets have you added to your collection?"

Jim blushed.

"You'll get a fine wigging from your grandfather if he hears of your

latest adventure," added Sir Savile.

"He _has_ heard of it, sir," said Jim, and forthwith told the specialist

of what had befallen him.

Sir Savile bit his moustache.

"No hope of a reprieve, I suppose?"

"No hope whatever, I fear," said Jim.

Sir Savile hailed a cab. "I'm due at Harley Street in fifteen minutes,

but I can talk to you on the way."

He laid his hand kindly on the Long 'Un's arm as the cab approached

them, and to Jim's credit be it said that he felt, at that moment, that

he had more good friends than he deserved to have.

"Practically," said Sir Savile, as the cab sped westwards, "you want a

billet?"

Jim ruefully acknowledged that he couldn't live on air.

"You want a billet? Good. I've got one for you."

He pulled a letter out of his pocket.

"My friend Taplow--'the ladies' doctor' they call him--has a surgery

over the water. As you may know, it's not an uncommon thing for a man

with a fat West-end practice to run a shilling and six-penny shop in the

slums. Anything for money, Mortimer! Well, as I said, he's got a

surgery over the water--in the Blackfriars district--and he wants a man

to look after it. He'll pay about a hundred and twenty a year. Any

good to you?"

"Better than living on air," said Jim.

"Experience, too," continued Sir Savile; "heaps. It's a rough,

poverty-stricken quarter--very rough. You'll make acquaintance with the

masses. The man lately in charge of the place was not quite up to the

work--too old. And he was unfortunate in his end----"

"_End!_" said Jim. "Is he dead, then?"

"Dead as a door-nail."

"What did he die of?" queried Jim.

"Boots and knives. He was killed by Hooligans."

The Long 'Un opened his eyes wide.

"Perhaps," said Sir Savile, "you will now think that even living on air

is better than risking one's chances of living on anything?"

"Not at all, sir," said Jim, stoutly; "I'm quite willing to take it on."

"I believe you are. Well, go and try it. Taplow's out of town, and has

asked me to put somebody in temporarily. I will put you in. Any morbid

objections to sleeping in your predecessor's bedroom?"

"None at all," said Jim.

"Right! You had better go to the place where he lodged, then. The

surgery has no living rooms attached to it--it's just a surgery and

waiting-room. When we get to Harley Street I'll give you full

particulars. Quite sure you don't mind going?"

"Quite," replied Jim.

"I do like a man that knows his own mind," said the specialist in a tone

of approval. "You needn't stay there for ever, you know--you're too

good for that sort of work."

Jim blushed again.

"Still, it'll tide you over the present difficulty. That's the point.

Ah, yes--and I must also give you the address of the place where you're

to lodge. Better send them a wire. House is about ten minutes' walk

from the surgery; people are gentlefolk, I believe--family--come down in

the world. I remember Taplow speaking of them to me--knows something of

them, and recommended his man there. One of the daughters is a

post-office clerk--very pretty--that'll suit you, eh?"

"I intend to devote myself entirely to work in future, sir," said Jim.

"Ah, yes! Quite so--quite so!" said the specialist chuckling. "Let's

see, yes--I recollect--the name

is--er--Marcombe--Mayflower--_Maybury_--that's it."

Jim uttered an exclamation.

"Eh?--what?" inquired Sir Savile.

"N--nothing, sir, nothing!"

"Oh," returned the specialist, "I thought you were going to say

something."

*CHAPTER VIII.*

*NUMBER NINE.*

Before the era of cheap train services, omnibuses, and trams--when the

outer London suburbs of to-day were smiling meadowland, and people

talked of Hampstead "village"--there were many residential quarters

within a walk of the City on both the Middlesex and Surrey sides of the

river. But with the growth of steam power arose great factories, and as

fast as these central residential quarters were swept away by commerce,

rows and rows of new streets swallowed up the fields that fringed

Suburbia, and afforded accommodation to those whose homes in the heart

of London were being razed to the ground.

But some of these quiet old squares and crescents have survived to this

day, and you may still find them here and there, sadly shorn of the

respectable family appearance they wore in their youth, and hemmed in by

huge and ugly business barracks from whose grimy windows issue the whirr

and hiss and thud of machinery, the monotonous clacking of type-writers,

and the continuous patter of footsteps on iron-shod stairs.

These architectural survivors of a day when the world, humanly speaking,

did not go round so fast--when the _Times_ received news by "electric

telegraph," and issued bulletins of various interest supplied by "Mr

Reuter's" special service--nowadays look like faded old maids, for their

exterior smartness is gone and their interior arrangement smack of a

time when it never occurred to a builder to put a bathroom in a house,

for the simple reason that he did not know how to convey hot water to

it, save by means of a can. In some of them each floor is occupied by a

separate family, while in others you may perceive the familiar dreary

legend "Apartments to Let" on a card which hangs disconsolately in the

fanlight over the door.

Such a crescent as we have described is Derby Crescent, which is

situated but a stone's throw from the bustling thoroughfare that leads

from Blackfriars Bridge to the "Elephant," and thence on and away to the

Old Kent Road, itself suggestive of coach and chaise and the days of our

grandfathers. Why Derby Crescent escaped demolition when Dame Commerce

stretched out her long, lean, hungry hand and grabbed wide acres of

comfortable homesteads for her building needs, nobody can tell you. But

it remained, while its neighbouring squares and crescents vanished; and

so, when William Maybury cotton spinner, of Manchester, was declared a

bankrupt, he was glad to hide his head in one of the two houses which

belonged to his wife in this self-same area. It was his second wife,

for his first had died whilst still pretty and youthful. And it may be

added that he had long since repented his second matrimonial venture, in

spite of the houses and money the lady brought with her as a marriage

portion.

To No. 9, therefore, he removed such goods and chattels as he was able

to save from the wreck of his luxurious house in Manchester, and at No.

9 he had been residing for three years when Jim Mortimer rattled up in a

cab a few hours after his talk with Sir Savile, and announced his

arrival by plying a knocker that, like the house it belonged to, had

seen very much better days.

After some delay the door was opened by a slatternly maid of tender

years, for her hair still hung down her back in a plaited queue.

The girl surveyed Jim, and then said, "Are you the new boarder, please?"

Then, before Jim could reply, she turned swiftly round and exclaimed, in

a shrill voice, "Oh, shut _hup_, Master Frank!"

A boyish laugh rang out, and Jim, peering into the gloomy hall,

perceived a lad aged about fourteen accoutred in Etons a good deal the

worse for wear--apparently harmony reigned at No. 9 as far as

appearances went--with a gleeful smirk on his face.

"Yes," said Jim, "I am Mr Mortimer."

"Will you come in, please?" the girl rejoined, and again swished round

to remonstrate with her tormentor. "Give _hover_, Master Frank--I'll

tell your ma, I will!"

"Sneak!" observed the amiable young gentleman addressed.

"Leave my 'air alone, then!"

Jim turned round and bade the cabman bring his portmanteau into the

house, and as the cabman, with much heavy breathing, deposited the

portmanteau in the hall, a large, middle-aged lady emerged from one of

the sitting-rooms and treated the new boarder to a gracious smile.

"Dr Mortimer, I presume?"

Jim bowed.

"Sir Savile Smart was so kind as to wire--as well as you--and tell us

that you were coming to take poor Dr Morgan's place. Very sad, was it

not? Such a nice, quiet old gentleman! But it's only old gentlemen and

women that these cowardly Hooligans venture to touch--indeed, we hardly

dare go out after dark! It gave us a great shock when we heard of what

had happened to Dr Morgan. The poor dear gentleman was really past

work, and must have fallen an easy prey to the ruffians. My husband is

not so young as he was, and I often feel nervous lest something should

happen to him! He makes me very cross by refusing to carry a

life-preserver. Every evening I expect to see his mangled corpse brought

to the door. If we could afford to, we should move out of this dreadful

neighbourhood, but there! people must live where they can live! When my

husband met with his reverses, you see, Dr Mortimer, our thoughts

naturally turned to Derby Crescent, where we could live rent free, as my

dear mother left me her property in this--but your cabman is waiting, Dr

Mortimer, and no doubt you wish to dismiss him!"

During her flight of eloquence the cabman had been regarding Mrs Maybury

with a most grim and forbidding expression on his face. Jim,

remembering that he had left his overcoat in the cab, walked back to the

vehicle with him.

"What's the damage, cabby?" inquired the Long 'Un, when he had secured

his coat.

"Leave it to you, sir."

Jim gave him sixpence over his fare. Over-paying cabmen had always been

a weakness of his.

"Much obliged, sir!" The cabman touched his hat and pocketed the

silver. "Wish you luck of your new quarters, sir."

"Thanks, cabby," said Jim.

"The way to treat '_er_," continued the cabman, indicating the

house--and presumably its mistress--with his thumb, "is to cut in when

she's 'arfway through what she's got to say. Them kind o' wimmen don't

mind bein' interrupted. Leastways, they mind a bit, but they ain't

annoyed. They go on afterwards same as if you 'adn't interrupted of

'em. You sees what I mean?"

"I see what you mean," said Jim.

"My old woman goes on just like 'er"--with another thumb

indication--"and so I know. I let 'er reel it off till I'm tired, and

then I change the subjick, casual-like. It's quiet easy to make 'em

change the subjick. There's wimmen 'oo, directly an idea enters their

brains, utters it wiv their mouves. See? It goes inter one and outer

the other as natural as rockin' a baby. But you can always interrupt

'em wivout doin' any 'arm, so you bear my tip in mind. Good-night to

you, sir!" he added, mounting his box.

"Good-night to you, cabby," said Jim, who concluded, as he walked up the

steps, that the cabman was something of a philosopher.

He found the little servant endeavouring to raise one end of his

portmanteau, which, being chock full of clothes, boots, books, and

instruments, was no light weight.

"Don't trouble," said Jim; "I'll carry it upstairs."

"I really cannot allow you to do that," said Mrs Maybury. "Frank," she

added, turning to the boy, "help Mary with Dr Mortimer's portmanteau."

"Shan't!" said the boy, pouting.

"Obey me at once, Frank!"

"Shan't!" repeated the boy, disappearing into the room from which his

stepmother had emerged.

By way of settling the matter, Jim shouldered the portmanteau. "Kindly

go first," he said to Mary, "and show me where my room is."

As he was about to ascend the staircase, an immense black cat came

stalking along the hall and rubbed itself, purring loudly, against his

leg.

"What a wonder!" cried Mary. "Tom generally don't like strangers."

"Good old Tom!" said Jim. Then he commenced his ascent of the stairs,

Mary preceding and "Tom" following him.

Thus guided--and accompanied--he at length reached his bedchamber--a by

no means spacious apartment on the second floor.

"This was Dr Morgan's room, sir," said the servant; "it's to be yours

now, sir."

"Thank you, Mary," said Jim.

Mary lingered. So did the cat.

"It's the room he slept in the night before he--he _died_, sir," she

added, fearfully.

"Well," said Jim, with a smile, "I suppose he had to sleep somewhere!"

"Y--yes, sir--but don't you mind, sir?"

"_Mind_! No, of course not! You can run along now, if you like," he

added, proceeding to unstrap his portmanteau.

As Jim, after unpacking the peculiar assortment of articles in his

portmanteau, indulged in what barbers designate a "wash and brush up,"

his thoughts naturally turned to the people he was henceforth to live

with. He wondered how many of them there were; whether there were any

more boys like Master Frank; whether there were any more servants, and,

if so, whether they were all as small as Mary; whether there were any

more boarders, and, finally, whether this was really the home of the

Dora Maybury he had met at the Milverton Street post-office. On this

last point, however, he felt pretty certain. To begin with, Jim told

himself, it was not probable that there were two pretty Dora Mayburys

employed by the London Post Office; and, to end with, the boy Frank bore

a most remarkable resemblance to the Dora Maybury Jim had been

introduced to. In the dim light of the hall, indeed, the likeness was

positively startling. Take that boy's Etons off and clothe him in a

neat black dress, put a wig of woman's black hair on him, and then, with

the angularities of his figure shrouded by the gloom of the hall, there

would be presented to view a very good double of Dora Maybury.

Taking these two arguments--if such they may be called--into

consideration, Jim felt pretty sure that this was Dora's home. _Her_

home! Jim's brain reeled for a moment at the mere idea of it. His

coming here seemed to have happened as things happen in dreams--he could

hardly realise even yet that he was actually under the same roof as that

which afforded shelter to Dora Maybury.

So quickly had this change in his circumstances been brought about, that

he had not even considered what Miss Maybury's ideas on the subject of

his advent might be. In truth, he hardly dared to consider the position

from that point of view.

Jim had accepted his present post in his usual happy-go-lucky way, being

at an age when men of his temperament do not act with much forethought.

Had Sir Savile asked him to accompany an expedition in search of the

North Pole, he would have agreed to go without a moment's hesitation;

had the great surgeon offered him a billet as medical officer to a tour

of exploration in Equatorial Africa, Jim would have "signed on" with all

the readiness in the world; and with an equal amount of promptitude he

would have sailed as surgeon on an emigrant steamer, would have taken

over the medical duties in a small-pox ship, a workhouse, a blind

school, or a convict prison. Had some great air-vessel been invented,

Jim would have jumped at the opportunity to accompany her in her

ethereal journey as medical adviser to the intrepid voyagers; or, if

such a post had been on offer, he would have consented to doctor the

exiles in a Siberian mine. He was, in fact, ready to go anywhere so

long as he went in a medical capacity.

Whatever Jim's faults were--and they were many in number--he was at

least devoted to his profession. His heart was in his work, and when he

really put his shoulder to the wheel there was more than a touch of

genius in the manoeuvres of his "hand." For Jim was a surgeon before

anything.

Here he was, however, in charge of an obscure practice, where, owing to

the proximity of hospitals, there would be few calls on his surgical

skill. He would always be welcome, of course, in the operating theatre

at "Matt's," although it was not likely that he would often have time to

attend there.

Did Jim regret accepting this humble billet in a humble district? Not

for a moment! Indeed, when he thought how Fate had afforded him a

chance of seeing Dora every day, he very nearly broke into a hornpipe on

his bedroom hearthrug. However, he restrained himself, and went down to

the drawing-room, the big black cat following steadily in his wake.

Mrs Maybury, her large body clothed in a silk dress that was well in

keeping with the fallen fortunes of the family, introduced Jim, firstly,

to her husband--a slender man of medium height, between fifty and sixty,

with an exceedingly well-cut face and neatly trimmed beard. He welcomed

Jim to his house in a few well-chosen, courteous words, and Jim, as he

noted the other's perfectly easy tone and manner, understood how Dora

had come by the same distinguishing characteristics.

Jim was then introduced to the two other boarders--to Miss Bird, a

maiden lady of obese person, harsh voice, and some sixty summers; and to

Mr Cleave, a tall, spare man, with a severe face whose beauty was not

enhanced by the pimples which flourished upon its surface. Mr Cleave

appeared to be about thirty years of age.

"And now," said Mrs Maybury, as Jim took his seat on a small and

uncompromisingly hard chair by her side, "I will tell you our ways and

hours, Dr Mortimer. We breakfast at eight, as my husband and one of my

daughters have to go to business early----" ("Aha!" thought Jim) "and

Frank to school. Not that he does much good there," she continued, "as

he is kept in almost every day for not learning his home lessons

properly. He goes to the Metropolitan School for Boys--yes, a very good

school, but the money seems to be wasted in Frank's case. Either he is

teasing Mary or the cat, or getting into mischief of some sort--indeed,"

lowering her voice, "he has nearly driven Miss Bird out of the house

already; not that that would be a very great loss, indeed, seeing that

she----"

"By the way, Mrs Maybury," said Jim, recollecting the cabman's advice,

"you will excuse my mentioning it, but have you a dau----"

At that moment, with a jingle, a rattle, and a stamping of hoofs, a cab

pulled up in front of No. 9. Mrs Maybury hastened to the window and

peered through the blind.

"It is Dora and Mr Jefferson--how kind of him to drive her home!"

Jim's tongue froze to his teeth. "Yes, I have two

daughters--step-daughters, rather;" she continued, returning to Jim's

side, "the elder, Harriet Rebecca--she hates her names so much that we

call her 'H.R.'--helps me with the housekeeping, and Dora is in--in

the--er--Civil Service. Mr Jefferson," she added, confidentially, "has

been paying her attentions for some time."

At that moment the door opened, and Dora Maybury, radiant with

excitement, hastened up to her stepmother. "Oh, mamma, Mr Jefferson has

a box at Daly's to-night. Can I go with him? He says he doesn't mind

Frank coming, too----"

"Certainly you may go, dear. Oh, and one moment, dear! Dr

Mortimer--this is my step-daughter--Dora."

"I have had the pleasure," said Jim, as he bent his lofty head, "of

meeting Miss Dora before, Mrs Maybury."

"Indeed!" cried Mrs Maybury. "How very small the world is!

Yes--and--Mr Jefferson--Dr Mortimer."

Dora's companion had entered the room and approached the group.

Directly their eyes met, Mr Jefferson and Jim recognised each other, the

former being no less a person than the pale-faced gentleman who had

uttered loud remarks at the Exhibition concerning early closing.

"I too have had the pleasure of meeting Dr Mortimer before," said Mr

Jefferson, without troubling to return Jim's bow, "but I cannot say that

I am pleased to see him again."

"Why, dear me!" said Jim with ready wit, "you must be the man who trod

on my toes at the Exhibition the other night."

And at this unexpected rejoinder--much to Mr Jefferson's

annoyance--Dora's pretty lips parted in an unmistakable smile.

*CHAPTER IX.*

*IN THE PILLORY.*

The somewhat strained situation brought about by Mr Jefferson's remark

was suddenly relieved by a loud scream, and then a volume of shrill

protest from Mary, who appeared, judging by the sound of her voice, to

be in close proximity to the drawing-room door.

"Shut _hup_, Master Frank--give _hover_, I say. Your pa shall 'ear of

this----"