"Oh!" shrieked Mary, "it's bitin' me. Take it off, Master Frank!"
Mr Maybury walked to the door and, opening it, looked into the hall.
"What is the matter, Mary--why are you making so much noise?" he
inquired.
"Master Frank put a beetle on my neck," whimpered Mary.
"Didn't," said Frank.
"Don't tell an untruth, Frank," his father warned him. "Did you or did
you not put a beetle on Mary's neck?"
"It was a spider," admitted Frank, who, tease and scapegrace as he was,
had not yet developed into that most difficult of persons to deal
with--a liar.
"It was something crawly, and I thought it was a beetle," said Mary; "he
keeps beetles," she added, in a tone conveying painfully correct
knowledge on the point.
"Apologise at once to Mary," Mr Maybury commanded his son.
"Don't see why I should," muttered the rebellious youth.
"Very well, then--you will not go to the theatre to-night with Mr
Jefferson and Dora."
The younger Miss Maybury, blushing somewhat (Jim noted the fact with a
sinking heart), hastened to the scene of reprimand. "Oh, Frank--say you
are sorry. You _must_ come to-night."
Mr Jefferson, with his eye on the old-fashioned chandelier, fervently
hoped that Frank would remain obstinately unrepentant.
"I'm--er--sorry," said Frank, stiffly.
"_Dear_ Frank--I knew you would!" said Dora, flinging her arms round her
brother's neck and bestowing a kiss of gratitude upon his brow.
"Here--chuck that!" cried Frank, shaking himself free. "What time must
I be ready by?" he added.
"We shall start directly after dinner--I'm going up to dress now," cried
Dora, and so the group separated, Frank and his sister proceeding
upstairs, Mary descending to the kitchen--where Miss H. R. Maybury was
preparing the evening meal--and Mr Maybury returning to the
drawing-room.
"That boy," exclaimed Miss Bird, in a loud, nutmeg-grating tone, "ought
to be sent to a reformatory."
Mrs Maybury turned on her lady boarder with asperity.
"You will oblige me, Miss Bird, by moderating your language when
speaking of Frank."
"Idle, graceless young rascal!" added Miss Bird, who was not at all
afraid of Mrs Maybury.
"Of course," said Mrs Maybury, with a contemptuous glance at her
husband, "if the boy's father allows him to be spoken of in this way, I,
who am only his stepmother----"
"Miss Bird is a little severe in her strictures, but I am afraid
something must shortly be done to curb Frank's insubordination," said Mr
Maybury with admirable tact.
"Try him with a whipping and dry bread and water for a week," snarled
Miss Bird, who disliked children generally, and abominated Master
Maybury.
"Pardon?" inquired Mr Cleave, who had sat through all the clamour deep
in a bilious-looking periodical called _The Total Abstainer_. Mr
Cleave, it should be added, was a little deaf. As, on looking up, he
found Miss Bird scowling at him, he concluded that she had addressed
him.
"--Bread and water for a week!" shouted Miss Bird, irritably. She hated
having to repeat anything, and the case was made worse in Mr Cleave's
case by the defect in his hearing.
"Water?" Mr Cleave nodded and smiled. "Certainly--plenty of water. Are
you an abstainer, sir?" he concluded, turning to Jim, whose name he had
not properly caught when they were introduced.
"Not I," replied Jim heartily.
Mr Cleave blinked severely.
"You sometimes fall into deadly sin by polluting your lips with
alcoholic liquor?" he inquired.
"I occasionally have a drink," acknowledged Jim.
Gradually a very pained and shocked expression stole over Mr Cleave's
cadaverous countenance. For Mr Cleave, as need hardly be explained, was
a fanatic on the liquor question--the kind of ill-balanced enthusiast
that does his cause more harm than good by his unbridled and immoderate
denunciations of the evil he wishes to abolish. He gazed upon Jim with
wonder and shame, and then, deeming him too hardened to be affected by
remonstrance, turned for comfort to the pages of _The Total Abstainer_,
and particularly to that part where notorious cases of drunkenness were
set down under the kind, Christian-like heading of "OUR PILLORY."
While these remarks were being passed, Mr Jefferson, who had dressed for
the theatre before he went to meet Dora, had been turning over the pages
of a magazine and occasionally stealing a glance at Jim. For he was
rather puzzled at finding the latter at No. 9. He was--it must be
remembered--entirely ignorant concerning Jim's identity. He had seen
Jim before, it was true, when visiting the Exhibition with Dora and her
sister, and had looked diligently in the paper for several days
afterwards to see what sort of punishment had been meted out to the
turbulent youth, but had failed to glean any information there, thanks
to the absolute silence Koko's press friends had maintained on the
subject.
So, gradually, the incident faded out of Mr Jefferson's mind, and he had
forgotten all about it when he entered Mr Maybury's house on this
particular evening, to find himself face to face with the disturber of
the peace whose toes he had trodden on some ten days since--and whose
pardon he had so unwisely omitted to beg.
Jefferson was the son of a wealthy City man. He enjoyed a liberal
allowance, golfed, motored, and ploughed the smooth waters of the Thames
in a steam-launch. He did everything, in fact, which cost money. Golf
is not a cheap game as played in clubs round London; motoring is not a
poor man's hobby; a steam-launch is a fairly expensive toy. Football and
cricket are trifles light as air--from an expenditure point of
view--compared with the pastimes Mr Jefferson followed. Mr Jefferson
might have played football and cricket, for he was only twenty-six, but
he preferred pursuits which betokened him to be the possessor of a
well-filled purse. When he referred to his recreations he endeavoured
to make it clear to his listeners that he had been out in his own
motor-car, and that he had not been churning the pleasant reaches of
Henley and Maidenhead at the invitation of any whisky baronet or tea and
coffee knight. He had been, if you please, in his own launch. An
unkind City acquaintance of his had once wondered--audibly--why
Jefferson didn't have the receipted bill for his launch pasted on the
exterior of the craft, just under her name. This was unkind, but they
say very unkind things about and to each other in the City. The Stock
Exchange--of which the Messrs Jefferson, father and son, were both
members--is as merciless in its chaff as a public school. Which, as my
public school readers will agree, is speaking very highly of the Stock
Exchange.
For the rest, Mr Jefferson could make himself exceedingly agreeable when
he liked, and as he was good-looking, attentive, gentlemanly, and always
well dressed, it was not surprising that he had managed to make an
impression on Dora's girlish and inexperienced mind. To tell the truth,
Mr Jefferson had come to the conclusion that Dora would be his for the
asking, and, therefore, was not going to hurry himself over the matter.
She was a charming girl--the most charming girl he had ever met--and he
admired her immensely. Possibly he would have been deeply in love with
her by this time had she not always received him with a smile of genuine
welcome and accepted his invitations to go here and there, and see this
and that, with unconcealed delight. After the drudgery of the
post-office counter, and the doubtful joys offered by her home circle,
Mr Jefferson's society came as a very pleasant relief to Dora. Whenever
they went out together he spent his money handsomely and gave her of the
best--and Dora was accordingly grateful and quite prepared to whisper a
tender affirmative when Harold Jefferson asked her to be his wife.
So stood the matter when Jefferson drove her home--she had begged off
from her work early, at his request--this September evening. So stood
the matter when Dora entered the drawing-room and was introduced to "Dr
Mortimer."
When Harold Jefferson, following Dora at a leisurely pace, heard Jim say
that he had met Miss Maybury before, he pricked up his ears. And when,
on entering the drawing-room, he saw who the gentleman was that had met
Dora before, a vague but distinct feeling of annoyance came over him. He
had met Jim in the inimical manner already described, and, as he turned
over the pages of the magazine, made up his mind to take an early
opportunity to inform Mrs Maybury of the part this new
boarder--Jefferson presumed Jim was a new boarder--had lately played
before a large and interested audience.
Presently Dora and Frank came downstairs. The former looked prettier
than ever in a white dress--with a pearl necklace, a gift Of Mr
Jefferson's, round her fair neck, and some other tiny shining ornament
in her hair. Frank looked unusually clean and dapper in his best suit,
Dora having tied a neat bow for him and generally supervised his toilet.
Dora seated herself on the arm of her father's chair, and stroked the
thin hair on his head in the caressing way both pretty and plain
daughters are often pleased to exhibit. Once only Dora stole a shy and
somewhat apprehensive glance at Jim. She had recognised Jim's voice
directly he spoke to Mr Jefferson at the Exhibition, and had turned her
face away, as she did not desire Jim, on the strength of his
introduction to her earlier in the day, to address her whilst he was in
such a quarrelsome mood.
And now--here he was--this Mr (or Dr) Mortimer--under her own father's
roof; and here, too, was Mr Jefferson, who had already expressed his
feelings with regard to this Mr (or Dr) Mortimer. Under the peculiar
circumstances, Dora had no desire to enter into conversation with Jim,
and so took shelter--as girls so often, and so wisely, do--under the
paternal wing.
Frank, however, had no reason to avoid Mr Mortimer. He rather admired
him for the easy way he had picked up his portmanteau and shouldered it
upstairs. A real boy admires a strong man, and Frank was a real boy
enough--suffering, at present, from being too much at home--for his
summer holidays were only just over. So he seated himself by Jim.
"I say, Dr Mortimer," he said at length, "would you mind telling me how
tall you are?"
Jim was genially glad of somebody to talk to.
"Six foot four," he replied.
"I _say_! Do you like being so tall?"
"Don't mind it," said Jim; "knock my head rather too often, perhaps."
Frank laughed. "There's a master at my school almost as tall as you,"
he proceeded, "but much broader."
"Indeed!" said Jim, who frequently had to listen to comparisons of this
sort.
"Well," continued Frank, surveying Jim with a critical eye, "I don't
know whether he's _much_ broader. You are _rather_ broad, aren't you?
But he's much fatter. They say he weighs eighteen stone. What do _you_
weigh?"
"Frank," said Mrs Maybury, "don't ask such personal questions, dear."
Dora smiled. She was listening in a not uninterested way to her
brother's ingenuous remarks.
"Oh, I don't mind, Mrs Maybury," said Jim; "I go just over thirteen
stone," he added, addressing Frank.
The boy looked thoughtful. Presently he said: "Can you fight well, Dr
Mortimer?"
He asked the question in all innocence, for Dora had not breathed a word
about Jim's performance at the Exhibition.
"I don't like fighting," replied Jim; "I am afraid of my nose bleeding."
Frank gazed at him with suspicion. Then, as Jim's face remained quite
grave, Frank's grew scornful. Afraid of his nose bleeding! That was a
nice thing for a man of six feet four to say!
To what extent Frank might have continued his interrogations we can only
vaguely surmise, but at this point Miss Bird--who had been much
irritated by Frank's inquisitive treble tones--dashed into the breach.
"And what, Mr Cleave," she asked, "are the cases in your 'Pillory' this
week? Anything of an exceptional nature?"
Mr Cleave came to life with a convulsive start. He had been absorbed in
a series of reports supplied by the _Abstainer's_ special commissioner
from the London police-courts.
"Pardon?" he asked. "Didn't catch----"
Miss Bird snapped her teeth, which came together much as a man-trap
would close on an unfortunate poacher's leg.
"'Pillory!' What's the worst case?" she bawled.
"Oh! The cases in 'Our Pillory'?" bleated Mr Cleave.
"Yes! Read 'em out!" Miss Bird returned in a saw-like, rasping growl.
Mr Cleave turned over the pages of _The Total Abstainer_ with evident
relish.
"The worst," he said, in a high, thin voice, "is one that our
commissioner only heard by unexpected good fortune. He does not often
go westwards. He finds that Bow Street and Whitechapel bring more
grist----"
"Read it out!" shouted Miss Bird.
"A piteous example of what over-indulgence in alcohol may bring a man to
(read Mr Cleave) was afforded by a case which came before our notice one
day last week in the Kensington Police Court. The degraded being, who
faced the magistrate with an unabashed gaze, was a young doctor named
Mortimer, who gave as his address a place of mercy and healing--the
Hospital of St Matthew."
"By George!" exclaimed Jim, "that's how our local rag got hold of it!
Copied it out of your paper."
"Pardon?" observed Mr Cleave.
"Go on!" roared Miss Bird.
"The facts were few but terrible (continued Mr Cleave). This member of a
noble calling, inflamed and rendered reckless of all consequences by the
Bend aforesaid, actually made a ferocious onslaught on a band of six
policemen. In a fair pleasure garden he let loose his unruly passions,
and only after a terrific struggle was he captured, handcuffed, and
thrust into a cell----"
"They locked you up, then?" inquired Jefferson, glancing maliciously at
Jim.
"Not they," said Jim; "I was let out on bail."
Miss Bird turned sharply round and glared into Jim's face.
"Are _you_ the person referred to in that report?" she demanded.
"I am," said Jim.
A silence fell on the room. Even the dim-of-hearing Mr Cleave
appreciated the situation, and understood that the lately arrived Dr
Mortimer was identical with the prime villain of the "Pillory" that
week.
"Pray continue, Mr Cleave," said Jefferson at length, with a curl of his
lip; "I am sure Dr Mortimer does not mind."
Mr Cleave was bending over the paper again, when an interruption came
from an unthought-of quarter. Mr Maybury rose to his feet.
"I do not think," he said, "that Mr Cleave had better proceed with his
reading."
"Nonsense!" said Jefferson. "Go ahead, Mr Cleave."
"For the sake of the Cause, Mr Maybury," piped Cleave, "I wish to----"
"I am master of this house," said the ruined manufacturer, who,
generally so mild and retiring, now spoke with unfaltering firmness,
"and I say that no man shall be insulted to his face under my roof. You
will oblige me, Mr Cleave, by not reading another word of that report.
Frank, go and see if dinner is ready."
*CHAPTER X.*
*AT THE SURGERY.*
Jim set out for the surgery next morning feeling somewhat depressed.
His sins were coming home to him. The attitude adopted towards him
generally by No. 9 was a hostile one. After the sad disclosures on the
previous evening, Miss Bird and Mr Cleave had, metaphorically, turned
their backs on him; Mrs Maybury was coldly polite; Miss H. R. Maybury (a
thin, angular young lady) barely recognised his presence; and, on the
whole, Jim would have spent a most chilly evening had not Mr Maybury
invited him to play chess.
"Seems to me," said Jim, as he left Derby Crescent, "I'm not in good
odour there. Shall I leave or shall I live it down? I should like to
leave, but--_hullo_!"
This exclamation was caused by the hitherto unnoticed presence of Tom,
the great black cat, who had quietly followed Jim out of the Crescent
into the main road, and seemed bent on accompanying the young doctor to
his destination. Jim endeavoured to make the cat go back, but Tom
persisted in accompanying him, and so at length the two reached Mount
Street, where Dr Taplow's surgery was situated.
On the pavement by the surgery door a group of meanly clad people were
already waiting for "the Doctor." The women--they were all women or
children--gazed with interest on the Long 'Un. He was a man most people
looked at twice, and to these poor souls he was of peculiar interest,
for he was to minister to their ills. And who--in times of sickness--is
of greater interest to one than the man who possesses the skill to make
one well again?
"Waiting to see me?" said Jim, cheerily, "All right--you may come in in
a moment."
Scouring the passage that lay on the other side of the door was a hag of
forbidding appearance.
"I am Mr Mortimer," said Jim, in reply to her stare of inquiry. "I have
come to take charge of the practice."
Passing by her, he opened a door on the right and entered the
waiting-room--a bare apartment furnished with a few chairs and a table,
on which latter lay a scanty collection of well-thumbed periodicals.
Opening out of this was the surgery, which had not been entered, save by
the hag aforesaid, since Dr Morgan had come by his untimely end.
On the desk lay the open ledger-with its quaint Latin entries--exactly
as poor old Morgan had left it. On the shelves were the usual ranks of
bottles containing acids, poisons, and other drugs; and here and there
on the counter under the shelves stood various dose-glasses, phials, a
stethoscope, and a pair of forceps, in whose grim clutch a rotten double
tooth that had been wrenched from some unfortunate aching jaw still
remained. The place was dirty and untidy, and altogether the sight that
met Jim's eyes was most dispiriting. This was, indeed, a humble surgery
in a humble district!
Still, Jim did not lose heart. He was fresh from one of the first
hospitals in London--in spite of the sudden change in his fortunes he
was full of enthusiasm, and eager to apply his knowledge.
The patients filed in, and Jim saw each in turn. They were all suffering
from common ailments, and the Long 'Un--after his varied experience
among the out-patients at Matt's, where he had sometimes doctored a
hundred persons in one morning--made short work of them.
One little girl had a rash on her chest and back. Jim readily diagnosed
the complaint as chicken-pox.
"Take her home and keep her in bed for a week, mum!" said he, to the
girl's mother; "keep her warm, mind. If she gets a chill, it will drive
the spots in, and the child may be very ill then. Keep her warm.
Medicine? No, she doesn't want medicine. Just keep her warm--and away
from the other children. All live in one room? Well, they'll all have
it--if they've not had it before. Just as well. Sixpence, please!"
A young seamstress had no appetite and felt too weak to work. No, she
wasn't married--she helped her mother. Take anything to drink? Only
tea. How often? Oh, the pot was on the hob all day. They just helped
themselves when they wanted it.
"The matter with you, mum," said Jim, "is _tea_! You're poisoning
yourself. So comforting? Yes, but it's poison. No more tea, mum!
Medicine? Yes. I'll make you up a nice tonic. And go out for a walk
every evening--don't tire yourself, though!"
But it wasn't all sixpenny and shilling counter-trade. Later in the
day--when it had been noised about that a new doctor had come to take
charge of the practice--various messages--some verbal, some scribbled on
notepaper--arrived. Would the doctor come to see Mrs Smith, who was
suffering from heart complaint; and Mrs Jones, who had nothing at all
the matter with her, but always thought she had? So Jim sallied forth
and paid calls on the wives of fishmongers and ironmongers, and
greengrocers, and publicans--nearly all his patients were
women--ascended rickety staircases, dived into evil-smelling bedrooms,
and went hither and thither and about and around on his useful errands
of healing and comfort.
Over the way, just opposite, was a provision shop and eating-house,
bearing the name of "Harris & Son."
From the portals of this establishment, about two o'clock in the
afternoon, issued a weary little old man of Jewish appearance, who,
after glancing up and down Mount Street, crossed over to the surgery.
He found Jim doing up some medicine.
"How d'ye do, doctor?" said he.
"How are you, sir?"
"Queer, doctor. Thought I'd come and ask your advice."
"Go ahead," said Jim, jabbing a stick of sealing-wax into the gas-jet.
"I've a funny feeling all over my 'ead--not in the 'ead, but all over
it. I've been a good deal worried of late, doctor."
"Sort of feeling as if your hair was being brushed?" inquired Jim.
"That's it. Not so nice, though."
"I know it," said Jim; "I've had it myself when I've been stewing hard
for an exam." (He hadn't really, but "having had it himself" was a
medical formula that he deemed it well to abide by--it comforted
patients.)
"Vell, I never! Vot is it, doctor?"
"Irritation of the subcutaneous nerves," said Jim, wisely.
"Ah!" said the weary little old man, "sounds bad!"
"Oh no--it'll soon go off. I'll make you up a tonic with a touch of
bromide in it. That'll soothe you."
"_Bromide_! Vy, ain't that the vicked stuff society ladies take?"
"Some of them. But they take it neat--yours will be diluted."
Jim made up a bottle of "the mixture," and the old man laid down his
shilling.
"I feel better already, sir," he said; "'ope you'll come over to our
place and get a bit to eat when you vant it. I'm from over the
road--Harris."
"Right!" said Jim, "I won't forget. Good-day, Mr Harris."
And in this way an adventure befell Jim, for, feeling hungry about an
hour later, he went over to the emporium of Harris & Son. Blocking up
the doorway he found a burly ruffian with close-cropped hair and a scarf
round his neck.
"Now, my man!" said Jim, wishing to pass by.
The gentleman addressed turned on him with an oath.
"Oo are you 'my manning,' young lamp-post? _You_ get out of _my_
way--d'ye 'ear?"
Now Jim conjectured--and rightly--that the ruffian in question was of
the Hooligan order, or belonged to a class of society near akin to that
order. So, being aware that he had to hold his own in this district, and
that it would never do to be intimidated, and bearing in mind that in
situations of this kind it was a good plan to hit first and hit hard, he
let drive between the fellow's eyes and knocked him clean off his feet.
This done, he stepped over him and proceeded to the counter to order
some food.
As the rascal dropped, a pale slip of a girl, who was holding a baby,
started up from the table at which she was sitting and rushed towards
the prostrate figure.
The man Jim had felled struggled to his feet with a flood of
imprecations pouring from his lips. The blow had dazed him, and for a
few moments he glared about him in an uncertain way. Then, as his
senses cleared, he perceived Jim, and gave a hoarse cry, fumbling the
while at the heavily buckled belt which he wore round his waist.
"Oh, Jack--don't!" cried the girl, interposing her slender form between
the man and the object of his meditated vengeance. As she did so, Jim
noticed that one of her eyes was discoloured; it was not hard to guess
who had caused the injury.
"Get over the counter!" cried Mr Harris; "you'll be safer 'ere."
"Not I," said Jim; "I can look after myself."
"'E's a terror," said the old man, in a hasty undertone; "e's a
Hooligan--the worst of 'em--their boss."
"I don't care," said Jim; "I can tackle him."
At length the Hooligan managed to unclasp his belt, but even as he did
so two policemen entered the shop.
"Now then--get out of this--quick!"
They knew him--evidently. They were two to his one. And there was
Mortimer near at hand to help if required.
The Hooligan was not without some regard for his personal well-being.
Directing a scowl of hate at Jim, he put on his belt again and left the
shop, followed by the girl.
"Same old game?" said one of the constables to Mr Harris.
"I didn't see it all--but I believe this gentleman knocked 'im down,"
replied Mr Harris. "'E's the noo doctor over the road."
The policeman eyed Jim with interest.
"I'd advise you to be careful, sir," he said; "that's the most dangerous
man in these parts. He's just done six months, and only came out three
days ago. We've been keeping an eye on him."
"I'll look out--never fear," said Jim.
For some hours after that Jim was very busy, but even in the midst of
his work he seemed to see the white, pleading face of the Hooligan's
girl-wife. No doubt she loved the brute--no doubt she had been
endeavouring to keep him in a good temper ever since he had come out of
prison. And the man, smarting from his recent confinement, sulky, and
conscious of his bull-like strength, had probably been thirsting for a
quarrel all these three days.
Then Jim's sharp speech fell on his ear, and the Hooligan wasn't
accustomed to being spoken to sharply by anybody save a policeman. He
had wheeled round fiercely, and had hardly had time to take stock of the
person addressing him before he was floored. He had never received such
quick treatment before in his life.
"Still," thought Jim, "I wouldn't have hit him had I known his wife was
there. At any rate, I'd have let him hit me first."
Jim got some tea at a shop in Blackfriars Road, and was fully employed
making up medicine at the surgery until it was dusk, and the street
lamps were shining yellow. Then he bethought him of Derby Crescent and
dinner.
He was tidying up the surgery preparatory to taking his leave of the
place for the day, when there came a short, peremptory knock on the
street door, which he had previously closed. Jim heard a murmur of
voices without. A woman, it seemed, was remonstrating with a man.
Jim went to the door and opened it. There, awaiting him, was the
Hooligan; a little farther off stood the latter's slip of a wife.
"Well?" said Jim, curtly.
Even as he spoke the girl gave the alarm: "Look out, sir--he's got his
belt off!" But the Hooligan was too quick, and the heavy buckle of the
belt came crash on to Jim's head, just above the brow, ere the woman's
warning was finished.
It was a frightful blow, and extracted a cry of pain from Jim. One cry,
and then Jim sprang forward, dodged the belt swinging at his head again,
and closed with the Hooligan. The two forms fell with a crash--Jim on
top. In a second he was kneeling on the ruffian, his hands upon the
other's throat.
"Oh, sir--oh, sir!--don't give him in charge! Oh, sir--he shan't do it
again!--please don't give him in charge!"
It was a piteous appeal, and Jim, hearing, rose to his feet.
"All right--take him away!"
Jim's head was swimming, and the blood was trickling over his face.
He staggered back into the passage, feeling that his senses were leaving
him. Supporting himself by the wall, he passed through the
waiting-room, gained the surgery proper, and was clutching at the
counter when a figure appeared in the doorway.
It was the Hooligan--with an uglier look than ever in his eyes.
Jim saw the brutal face and the uplifted belt. The man was going to hit
him again. The belt rose--but of a sudden help arrived from an
unexpected quarter, for at that moment a little, quick-moving man
entered the surgery, and, noting the position of affairs, seized the
Hooligan's wrists, and brought the ruffian to the floor with a neat
trip.
"I got your card, and came along as soon as I could," said Koko. "By
the way, who's your friend?"
"Oh, he was only getting even with me," said Jim. "I hit him earlier in
the day."
The Hooligan's wife was endeavouring to make her husband leave the
waiting-room, but he seemed anxious to renew the combat.
Her expostulations ceased abruptly, however--as did the man's
maledictions--and a new voice fell upon the hearing of the two friends.
"Now, my good people, do you want anything here? If you will wait a few
moments you shall be attended to."
Then Jim and Koko saw the doorway of the surgery proper filled by a
portly form.
"You are Mr Mortimer, I believe?" said the new arrival. "I am Dr
Taplow. I am greatly obliged to my friend Sir Savile for obtaining your
services for me, and must thank you for acting as my _locum tenens_
to-day. I am accompanied, however, by the gentleman I myself have
appointed to take charge of the practice, and so I shall not require you
after to-day."
Jim bowed. "Very good, sir," he replied.
"By the way--are you hurt?" inquired Dr Taplow.
"It's only a scratch," said Jim, reaching down his hat.
"Indeed! I was afraid it was something worse ... er--if you will let me
know what I owe you, I will send you a cheque ... er ... come in, Dr
Perkins, come in ... er--_good_ evening, Mr Mortimer!"
*CHAPTER XI.*
*MR MAYBURY'S RESOLVE.*
Mr Maybury received a long and severe curtain lecture from his wife on
the night of Jim's arrival at No. 9, the subject of it being Jim
Mortimer and Jim Mortimer's delinquencies.
"After the disgraceful revelations of this evening," said the good dame,
as, having blown out the candle, her lord composed himself for slumber,
"we can't allow him to stay with us. It would give the house a bad
name. People would tattle and gossip until we should be obliged to
move. Imagine! Drunk and disorderly! fought the policemen! had to be
bound with ropes and taken in an ambulance to a police-station----"
"I hardly think it was quite so bad as that," Mr Maybury interrupted in
a mild, sleepy voice.
"The fact remains," continued Mrs Maybury, with energy, "that he was
taken to a police-station, was fined, was reprimanded by the magistrate.
A nice sort of man to have in one's house contaminating the children!
Frank has taken a fancy to him already; the next thing will be _Frank_
fighting policemen----"
"Don't talk such nonsense, my dear," said Mr Maybury. "Medical
students," he added, "often get into trouble. Nobody cares much if they
do; they are regarded as privileged madcaps. Dr Mortimer is a very
young man--still a student at heart. I must say I like what I've seen
of him very much, and am not surprised at Frank's taking a fancy to
him."
"Do you want your son to be sent to a reformatory, as Miss Bird
suggested?" inquired Mrs May bury.
"He won't be," her spouse assured her; "Frank has no vices; he's only
mischievous."
"If he imitates Dr Mortimer," cried Mrs Maybury, "there's no knowing
what the boy won't come to. No, William, you must tell Dr Mortimer that
he must find fresh lodgings. He can't stay here. Miss Bird and Mr
Cleave will both leave if he does. Mr Cleave told me to-night that he
cannot breathe the same air as such a man."
"Cleave's an old woman," muttered Mr Maybury.
"Miss Bird----" began Mrs Maybury.
"I wish Miss Bird _would_ go," put in Mr Maybury.
"And you can see Mr Jefferson doesn't like him," continued Mrs Maybury,
"with half an eye. Mr Jefferson!--the man to whom you are indebted for
your daily bread!"
"I'm employed by his father," objected Mr Maybury.
"It's all the same. Mr Jefferson got you your post. Suppose he told
his father that you were harbouring a man who fights policemen and gets
drunk----"
"His father would say that that was my business," rejoined Mr Maybury.
"Well, we can't risk keeping him here. It's too dangerous. I've no
objection to the young man myself----"
"Then why d'you go on about him so much?" retorted Mr Maybury.
"For the sake of our home and its reputation," almost shrieked Mrs
Maybury, "that's why. Here I work and slave and get no thanks--not a
word of thanks--and then, when I express an opinion, you snap my head
off. It's more than flesh and blood can stand!" she concluded,
dissolving into tears.
"Suppose," said Mr Maybury, placidly, "we discuss the matter in the
morning?"
"I won't say another word," cried Mrs Maybury, between her sobs; "I've
said all I have to say. If you keep this man here, he'll take our good
name away. There--now I've done!"
And so, with sobs at intervals, she at length fell asleep.
The once wealthy merchant held a very modest position in the business
house of Jefferson & Son. He was, in fact, but one of their
book-keepers. He--the erstwhile employer of fifty clerks and five
hundred workpeople--now sat on a high stool at a high desk and laboured
at the books for a small salary. When a man has come down in the world
with a sudden run he is generally to be had at a low figure, and
Jefferson & Son bore the fact in mind when they engaged Mr Maybury. The
hours (ten to four) were short, it is true, but Mr Maybury would have
worked later willingly could he have thereby added to his earnings.
The other clerks at Jefferson & Son's were mainly young fellows between
whom and Mr Maybury no great bond of fellowship could very well exist.
He was left largely to himself, therefore, went out to his frugal
mid-day meal alone, returned alone, and said very little to those about
him from the time the office opened till its closing hour.
Harold Jefferson did not trouble himself with business more than he
could help. He preferred the West End to the City. However, he put in
a certain number of appearances per week, and whilst at the office
treated Mr Maybury with respect, mingled with a slight but distinct air
of patronage.
Such conversations as they held related, of course, entirely to the
firm's business, and so it was with no little surprise that, on the day
following Jim's arrival at No. 9, Mr Maybury received an invitation from
Harold Jefferson. "I want to speak to you about one or two matters,"
ran the pencilled note which the office-boy handed to Dora's father, "so
shall be glad if you will lunch with me at 1.30. I will be waiting for
you at the front entrance at that hour."
It was, of course, as much a command as an invitation. At the appointed
time Mr Maybury met young Mr Jefferson, who at once hailed a cab and
drove his guest to a restaurant in the West End. It would not do at all
(thought young Mr Jefferson) to be seen lunching with one of his clerks
at a restaurant in the City.
"Now, Mr Maybury," said the host, when lunch was over and they had lit
their cigars, "I have two things to say to you. One of them concerns
your daughter--Miss Dora."
Mr Maybury inclined his head. He had not imagined that this invitation
was the outcome of purely hospitable motives.
"I have been paying her attentions for some time," said the well-to-do
young stockbroker, "and I propose, with your sanction, to ask her to
marry me."
"You have my full consent to do so," said the ruined merchant,
graciously.
"From what you have observed, do you think that my proposal will be
favourably received?" asked Jefferson, carelessly.
"I can offer no opinion," said Mr Maybury.
"I may at least take it that, if she accepts me, you are willing to
regard me as a prospective son-in-law?"
"Perfectly willing," was the reply.
"Thank you. Now, as to this fellow Mortimer----"
"I beg your pardon. What has Mr Mortimer to do with the matter?"
"If," said Jefferson, "I become engaged to your daughter, Mr Maybury, I
shall have a decided objection to your allowing such a man as Mortimer
to remain under the same roof as my _fiancee_."
Mr Maybury took a thoughtful pull at his cigar. The well-to-do young
stockbroker looked keenly at the ruined merchant. It was to the
latter's advantage to defer to the former. Was he not, as his wife
remarked, indebted to this man for his daily bread?
Mr Maybury laid down his cigar and sipped his champagne, and meantime
such reflections as these coursed through his brain. He was a very poor
man, 'tis true, but he had always prided himself on being a just one.
Personally, he had perceived no great harm in "this fellow Mortimer."
Why, therefore, should he turn him out of his house?
"Well?" inquired the young stockbroker, curtly.
"The most charitable course to pursue," said Mr Maybury, at length,
"would be to see how he goes on. Should he prove himself unfit----"
"He has. He is a low, drunken brawler. I cannot bear the thought of
Dora being brought into daily contact with him. You will at least admit
that I have a right to lodge an objection against him--or will have,
should your daughter accept me?"
"I should prefer to see how he goes on," said Mr Maybury.
"Very well, sir," rejoined Jefferson, rising from his seat with a look
of great annoyance on his face, "have it your own way. Waiter, my bill.
Please excuse me now, Mr Maybury, as I am not returning to the City."
Instead of going straight to the office, when he got back to the City,
Mr Maybury turned into a quaint little churchyard--a smoke-begrimed
patch of green, where one might rest awhile on a seat. Here he remained
for ten minutes, and when he at length turned his steps officewards, he
had made up his mind that, however disastrous such an attitude might
prove to his prospects, he would in no way seek to influence Dora in
Harold Jefferson's favour. Nor should Jim Mortimer leave his house,
unless he himself desired to go.
"I have lost pretty nearly everything," thought the ex-merchant as he
paced his way along the crowded pavement, "but till the day of my death
I hope, please God, to retain my self-respect."
The thought inspired him, and he went back to his book-keeping with an
unusual light in his eyes--with an additional firmness in his step.
'Twas true that Fate had robbed him of wealth and position, but Fate's
worst buffets could not cause him to act in any way save that becoming a
gentleman.
*CHAPTER XII.*
*KOKO'S WORD.*
"We'd better have a cab," said Koko, in his quiet way, as, after Jim's
curt dismissal by Dr Taplow, they walked down the pavement together.
"Right you are," groaned Jim. He felt too ill, weak, and miserable to
do anything except just agree with everything that was said to him. If
the gentle reader has ever been sea-sick he will be in a position to
appreciate Jim's condition.
"Keep a grip on that lamp-post while I fetch one," said Koko, hastening
away through the gloom of the autumn evening.
When the cab arrived, Jim got in thankfully; and the two friends,
holding Tom, who had followed Jim out of the surgery, between them,
rattled off.
"I suppose you'll ask me to stay to dinner with you?" said Koko.
Jim uttered a hollow laugh.
"Stay if you like, but I won't guarantee you'll enjoy yourself."
"Any girls?" inquired Koko, flirtingly.
"Two," said Jim; "also a woman-man teetotal crank, and a female
gorilla."
Koko particularly wished to stay to dinner with Jim, for he was
formulating a plan for Jim's future. But he was not going to expound it
until Jim was in a state to give it due consideration.
On reaching No. 9 they found Frank lurking in the passage. When Jim
removed his hat, Frank, observing his wound, was filled with curiosity.
"I say, Dr Mortimer, how did you hurt your forehead?"
"Somebody hurt it for me," said Jim.
"Was it a fight?" inquired the youth excitedly.
"Kind of one," admitted Jim.
Full of the news he had gleaned, Frank burst into the drawing-room,
where Mr and Mrs Maybury, Dora, and the other paying guests were
awaiting the summons to dinner.
"I say, pater, Dr Mortimer's been having a fight. He's got an awful cut
over the napper."
"Frank!" exclaimed Mrs Maybury, "how often must I tell you not to use
such vulgar terms?"
Frank grinned.
"You go and have a look at it!" he added, with supreme gusto, "you never
saw such a whopping cut in all your life."
Mrs Maybury turned a glance on her husband which plainly said: "And what
do you think of him now?"
Miss Bird gave a snort of disgust, and Mr Cleave, heaving a deep sigh,
buried himself anew in the advertisements of _The Total Abstainer_, he
having by this time utterly exhausted all the literary portions of the
paper.
Jim sent Mrs Maybury a message by Mary intimating that he had brought a
friend, Mr Somers, home with him, and would be greatly obliged if she
would permit the said Mr Somers to remain to dinner. Mrs Maybury
graciously replying that she would be "most happy," Koko and Jim (the
latter with his head neatly plastered) in due course appeared in the
drawing-room.
Much to Mrs Maybury's surprise, Koko, after exchanging bows with the
lady of the house, walked straight across to Dora and shook hands with
her.
"You know Mr Somers, then, Dora?" inquired Mrs Maybury, somewhat
sharply.
"Yes, mamma," replied Dora; "he is a friend of Miss Cook's."
"Indeed!" said Mrs Maybury, to whom it seemed that Miss Cook had been
introducing Dora to very undesirable people--for Dora had informed her
that it was by Miss Cook's agency she had become acquainted with Jim.
Dora had now been in the post-office six months, and had behaved so far
in an exemplary manner. Even the girl's stepmother, prone to find fault
as she was on the slightest pretext, had not discovered anything to
grumble at in Dora's conduct. But now--now affairs were assuming a
different complexion. Dora had made masculine friends unbeknown to her
mother. One of them was a dissipated young doctor, and the other--well,
who and what was this other man--this Mr Somers?
"And do you, too, belong to the medical profession, Mr Somers?" inquired
the dame.
"No, I am a journalist," replied Koko.
Miss Bird glanced up sharply; Mr Cleave also looked across at the
visitor. Miss Bird had not been introduced to Mr Somers, but she did
not allow little obstacles of that kind to stand in her way when she
required information.
"And what is your particular department?" she abruptly demanded.
"I work for the sporting press--I am what is known as a sporting
journalist," replied Koko.
The inquisitive expression on Miss Bird's face turned into a stony glare
of disapproval.
"You go to horse-races?"
Koko did not like being cross-examined about his private affairs in this
unblushing manner. So he determined to let this rude old lady know all
about himself so as to save further questions.
"Yes, I attend horse-races and swimming-matches, and billiard-matches
and prize-fights----"
"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" roared Miss Bird. As for Mr
Cleave, he uttered a thin, high cough. He had heard that the average
journalist did his work with a bottle of brandy at his elbow--what then
must a journalist be like who reported prize-fights and horse-races!
What indeed!
With a sigh he sought distraction in the long list of "Homes for
Inebriates" which appeared regularly in _The Total Abstainer_. This
weekly journal was Mr Cleave's invariable comforter when he felt
distressed. Besides, it offered L100 insurance in the event of one of
its regular subscribers being accidentally killed. Several of Mr
Cleave's nearest relatives took in the paper, and Mr Cleave had often
calculated what amount he would receive as insurance should all these
relatives be killed in one railway accident.
"I believe," Miss Bird went on (as Koko made no rejoinder), "that
drunkenness is a common vice among persons working for the press. Is
that not so, Mr Cleave?"
"Pardon?" queried Cleave, putting his hand to his ear.
"Bless the man!" exclaimed Miss Bird, irritated beyond measure, "why
doesn't he get an ear-trumpet! I was saying," she continued, in a
boisterous key, "that most journalists were drunkards. Is that not so?"
Now, Mr Cleave recollected Mr Maybury's stern rebuke of the previous
evening, so he deemed it as well to be cautious.
"_Some_ journalists," he replied, nodding pleasantly at Miss Bird.
"_Most!_" insisted Miss Bird.
"I will not go so far as to say that----" quavered Mr Cleave.
"Then you are a coward!" snapped Miss Bird, in utter disgust. Mr Cleave
had proved but a backboneless creature when she had relied on his
support.
It is highly probable that Miss Bird would have proceeded to put further
questions of a personal nature to Koko had not Mary popped her head into
the room with "Dinner's quite ready, mum."
Miss Bird's face cleared. She could eat twice as much as anyone else in
the house (not excepting Frank), and the announcement of dinner always
put her in a good temper.
Whilst Koko and Jim had been upstairs, before entering the drawing-room,
Jim had given his friend a brief sketch of the situation. For, it must
be remembered, this was their first meeting since Koko had read old Dr
Mortimer's drastic and final epistle. When Jim told Koko that this
house was the home of Miss Dora Maybury, Koko had smacked his chum on
the back and enjoined him to go in and win; but when Jim mentioned
Jefferson, and the latter's attitude with regard to Dora, Koko whistled
thoughtfully.
Two things he decided. Firstly, that Jim must stay on at No. 9 at all
hazards; and, secondly, that the plan which had been in course of
formation in his mind from the moment Dr Taplow had told Jim to go, must
take an immediate and definite shape.
That plan Koko intended to broach to Jim after dinner. But Fate willed
otherwise.
The meal progressed quietly, the presence of a stranger possibly having
a restraining influence on the shrewish outbursts of Miss H. R. Maybury,
the cheeky utterances of Master Frank, and the voluble rebukes of Mrs
Maybury. Jim was seated between Miss Bird and Mr Cleave, the two girls,
with Frank and Koko, facing him. Dora, as a matter of fact, sat
immediately opposite Jim.
"Well, Dr Mortimer," presently observed Mr Maybury, "you have not come
through your first day's work unscathed, I see."
For Mr Maybury felt sure that Jim would be able to give a satisfactory
account of the proceedings.
Miss Bird grunted; Mr Cleave cast a glassy eye on the broccoli. Both
waited for Jim's defence.