"Then a few dozen more imaginary relatives came in, and I threw them all
out of the window. After a bit of a struggle with himself he gave me
another shilling for doing this, and then I sent him to a hospital,
money and all, and there he croaked, and now they can't find a single
real relative to take over his property."
Jim discoursed for some time about his experiences, but at length Koko
had to hasten away to fulfil an engagement, and so Jim locked up his
surgery and bent his steps homewards.
Trudging down Blackfriars Road, he found a barrel-organ playing at the
point where a by-street branched off in the direction of Derby Crescent.
Jim loved a barrel-organ, and stopped to listen to this one. The
organ-grinder had chosen a good pitch, in the glare of a great electric
lamp-post. There was a small crowd of wayfarers watching a number of
little girls dancing in front of the organ. Jim watched them too, and
was delighted with the performance, for the little maids danced with
thorough enjoyment and kept perfect time. One or two couples of
grown-up girls were waltzing to the music--although the organ wasn't
playing a waltz--but Jim was not interested in these.
Jim had visited many a music-hall in the company of Koko, the red-haired
student at Matt's, and others, and had frequently watched the skilful
gyrations of trained ballet-dancers, but it seemed to him that this
queer little dance, with the heavens for a roof and a muddy wood-block
road for a floor, was a much better dance than any he had seen in a
music-hall. The organ played a merry tune--full of straightforward
melody--and Jim was quite infected with it. He began to wonder when he
had last danced--when he would dance again. And meanwhile he watched
the little maids, and smiled at the earnest way in which they tripped in
and out among each other, quite in the proper style and order; and he
gave a shilling to the Italian woman who came round to collect.
As Jim listened to the music and watched the dainty steps of the little
street dancers, he felt genuinely happy. The scene pleased him; it
chased the wistfulness from his face, and he felt loth to continue his
walk homewards. He was interested. These people around him were his
people now; these people were his patients. Poor they were--starving,
some of them--and he was their doctor. Had matters fallen out otherwise,
it would have been his destiny to attend a very different class of
patient. He would, in all probability, have assisted his
grandfather--have ridden a horse, worn the best of clothes, and eaten
and drunk "like a lord." He would have hunted and shot, and lived the
life of a country gentleman, with just enough work to do to prevent
himself from experiencing ennui. But instead of that he was fighting
for an existence in Mount Street--among the poorest of the poor. No
hunting, no shooting, no old port; it was grim fighting in Mount
Street--hard work and a hard life--hardly earned money and money hard to
get, even when he had earned it.
Still, he reflected, he _lived_. It was life--he lived strenuously. He
was working in the heart of the greatest city in the world; he was
living a man's life. Wasn't this, after all, better than lolling round
a ready-made practice? Of course, that was good work, useful work--but
this work in Mount Street was on a different plane. It was sheer
fighting, and Jim, being a "scrapper" by nature, was filled with a
feeling of fierce joy. He knew that he had played the fool, and that
this was the penalty. But it was a penalty of a mixed kind, for it was
a test which he relished. It was a test which would have knocked out a
weak man, but Jim felt that he was getting a firmer foothold every day
he trod the grimy pavement leading to his surgery.
Presently the little girls stopped--panting--and the organ-grinder
dropped his handle. It was time he moved on.
So it was over, and Jim found himself feeling sorry. The other
onlookers strolled away, and Jim was turning down the by-street, when he
felt a touch on his arm, and looked round to find Dora Maybury by his
side.
*CHAPTER XVII.*
*IN THE CRESCENT.*
This was the first time Jim had met Dora all by herself without the
stronghold--No. 9, to wit. And there he had found few opportunities to
say anything to her that was not formal and commonplace; indeed, their
intercourse, with watching eyes and listening ears about them, had been
(to Jim, at any rate) of a gallingly circumscribed character.
It is poor satisfaction, when the heart is hungry, to look into the eyes
one loves, and remark that it is colder than it was yesterday; your
lover is kept on conversation's shortest commons when, though burning to
say a thousand tender things to the one girl he holds most precious, he
has, perforce, to hazard a remark to the effect that there may be rain
before morning.
Thus it was with Jim. He often saw Dora, but seldom spoke with her.
There was that evening when she drew the course of the Rhine under his
tutelage--but that was a memory by itself--a verdant oasis in the desert
of verbal starvation!
It may be easily imagined, therefore, how fast beat Jim's heart when he
found himself absolutely alone--and unwatched--with Dora Maybury.
"Have you too been listening to the organ?" he asked.
"Yes," said Dora, "I was there when you came up. I have been shopping.
Frank came out with me, but disappeared."
Jim devoutly hoped that Frank would not reappear. Dora was carrying a
heavy marketing-net--the shops keep open late in Blackfriars Road--and
Jim promptly possessed himself of this.
"Frank ought to have been carrying it," explained Dora, as they walked
down the by-street, "but," she added, "you know what brothers are!"
"I have heard accounts of them," said Jim, "but can't speak from
experience, as I haven't any."
"Nor sisters?"
"Nor sisters either," said Jim; "nobody, in fact, but a grandfather."
"Dear me!" said Dora, "what a very lonely boy you must have been! I
suppose your grandfather is very fond of you?"
"I think he has a sort of mild affection for me," said Jim, "but
unfortunately I offended him when I--er--when I was put on _The Total
Abstainers_ black list."
Dora seemed interested.
"And what did he do?" she inquired.
"He behaved in a manner that was not even mildly affectionate."
"And you don't see him now?"
Jim admitted that that was so.
"But perhaps he will make it up at Christmas-time," suggested Dora. "He
ought to."
Jim shook his head.
"My grandfather is not the sort of man to do anything because he ought
to."
"Oh, I hope he will," said Dora; "it must be so wretched for you--having
nobody."
"You are very kind," said Jim, his voice suddenly changing.
"But surely," said Dora, quickly, "anybody would be sorry for a man who
had nobody in the world to care for him."
Jim made no rejoinder. So Dora, meaning only to make him feel that she
sympathised with his position, said again that she hoped all would be
right between him and his grandfather by the time Christmas came.
"But you have friends," she continued, comfortingly; "there is Mr
Somers, and Sir Savile and I know my father likes you--oh yes, you have
friends. You must not be disheartened. You must look upon us all as
your friends, Dr Mortimer."
"I did not mean to extract all this sympathy from you, Miss Dora," said
Jim. "I was only answering your questions."
"But I am glad you have told me," said Dora, "because I did not know all
this about you before. And I am so sorry for people who have no home,"
she added, gently.
So spoke this maid, barely nineteen, in the innocent warmth of her
nature. She could not have remembered that a man can bear taunts,
abuse, sarcasm, and show a smiling front, but that the least word of
sympathy will break down the same man's defences and leave his
heart--hardened to all else--without a shield.
"You are too kind," said Jim again; "it would be better, perhaps, if you
were not kind to me at all."
Then a silence fell upon them, and in silence they passed from the
by-street into the crescent, whose glory was so faded. They walked by
several of the shabby houses, still without speaking, but as they drew
near to No. 9, the question Dora wanted to ask would not stay within her
lips.
"Why?" she said, without looking at him.
"Because," replied Jim, steadily, "I love you. That is why it will be
the kindest thing on your part never to be kind to me again."
As Jim spoke, Dora gazed up at him in a surprised, half-frightened
manner. When she said "Why?" she knew very well that there was no need
on her part to ask such a question. Her woman's instinct told her
"why"; there was no need for Jim to do so. But, with a wilful disregard
of conscience, which bade her not inquire too closely into Jim's reasons
for that little speech, she had allowed her lips to shape the word that
had extracted so blunt a confession from her companion.
Even had she not been engaged to Jefferson, Jim's avowal, considering
the length of their acquaintance and the very small amount of
conversation they had enjoyed together, would have been ill-timed and
premature. As matters stood, Jim had no possible right to speak thus.
But she had asked "Why?" and he had told her.
Jim himself, as soon as he had spoken, condemned himself for a fool, an
ass, and an idiot. This would put an end to any little friendship that
might have hitherto existed between them. What could he do to mend the
sorry mistake his tongue had made?
He was the first to break the awkward silence. He laughed. Dora, on the
other hand, bit her lip nervously.
"Please don't take me too seriously, Miss Dora," said Jim.
"So," said Dora, confronting him with dignity and flaming cheeks, "I am
to regard what you said just now as a joke?"
"Well--if you like," replied Jim, rather awkwardly.
"Then I think you are very rude!" exclaimed Dora, "and I won't speak to
you again."
She turned abruptly toward the steps leading up to the door of No. 9.
"Oh, I say, come now," expostulated Jim, "I think that is a little too
severe. You asked 'Why?' and I told you 'Why!'"
Dora switched round to him and turned a very red little face,
illuminated by eyes that flashed with anger, up to his.
"You had no right to say what you did just now, because you know I am
engaged to Mr Jefferson----"
"Lucky man?" sighed Jim.
"Are you still regarding me as a person just to be joked with?" demanded
Dora, with something like a sob in her voice.
"No," said Jim, earnestly, "as a girl to be loved for ever and ever!"
Jim's astonishing comprehensiveness struck Dora dumb for a moment. What
_could_ a girl do with a man like this!
Dora considered what she could say that would make a good rebuke. And
meanwhile she looked (as Jim declared to himself) bewilderingly lovely.
"What you said, considering the circumstances," she continued at length,
"was dishonourable and ungentlemanly."
"I plead guilty on both counts," said Jim.
"And so," Dora went on, "I shall not speak to you again--ever."
"I think," replied Jim, "that you are taking far too harsh a view of the
case. If you will walk round the crescent just _once_ with me, I will
try to put myself right in your eyes."
"That you can never do," said Dora. But, after a moment's hesitation,
she lifted her skirt and walked on, and Jim, with an overflowing heart,
paced along by her side.
"I know you are engaged, of course," began Jim, "and I know that I ought
not to have said what I did, that being the case."
"Then why did you say it?" demanded Dora, with an imperious little stamp
of her foot.
"I couldn't help it," said Jim; "you are so pretty. You are the
prettiest girl I have ever seen--the prettiest, the daintiest, and the
sweetest. There is nothing on earth I wouldn't do for you, even to the
laying down of my life, if that would serve you. I have loved you from
the first moment I ever set eyes on you, and I shall never love another
girl as long as I live."
Thus spoke Jim in the fulness of his heart, and his words were as music
in Dora's ears; for what woman--worthy of the name--would be displeased
by such a confession? That was Jim's speech--those were Jim's
sentiments--hackneyed sentiments enough in all conscience, seemingly,
and yet not hackneyed at all, because they were quite fresh and sincere.
He meant them, he felt them. Never did love speak more honestly.
Yet there was a ring on Dora's finger--a ring--an emblem of her plighted
troth. And this ring seemed to burn into her finger and reproach her
for even letting this other lover complete his declaration.
"You are making it worse and worse," she said, but not at all crossly.
"Well," said Jim, "you know now. You can tell Jefferson what I've said
if you like. I've told you I love you, and why. I've got it off my
mind, and I shan't be so miserable now."
"Have--have you been miserable?" asked Dora, very gently.
"Yes," said Jim.
"_Very?_"
"As miserable," said Jim, "as a man could be."
"Oh," said Dora, "I'm so sorry! I suppose I ought to be angry with you,
but I don't see how I can be when you--you like me so much."
Jim looked up at the sky with a mist in his eyes. They walked on, and
all too soon came round to No. 9 again.
"Oh, if you please, give me my net," said Dora, for all this time her
purchases had been dangling from Jim's left hand. She had forgotten all
about them, and Jim had been quite unconscious of his burden.
"Then," said Jim, as they stopped in the shadow thrown by the porch,
"you forgive me?"
"Yes, yes, entirely--on condition you never say anything like that
again. And now give me my net."
"Here is the net," said Jim, "and here," as he kissed her, "is something
else."
"Oh, how dare you!" cried Dora, snatching at her net and running up the
steps with cheeks of scarlet.
As for Jim, he diplomatically continued his walk round the crescent.
*CHAPTER XVIII.*
*MASTER HARRIS IS SHOWN OUT.*
One evening, a week or two later, Koko was sitting with his short legs
propped up over the Long 'Un's surgery fire. During a pause in the
conversation he observed Jim fumbling in his inner coat pocket.
"Twenty-five," said Jim, at length, handing his friend that amount in
bank-notes; "half what I owe you."
"Don't bother about that yet," said Koko, tossing them back.
"If you don't take them," said Jim, in a ferocious tone, "I'll make you
eat them."
"Try it on, you bully!" returned Koko, springing up.
Jim therefore squeezed the notes up into a round, tight ball, and
advanced upon the little man.
"Be careful, my son," said Koko; "if I hit you, it'll hurt."
For answer Jim leapt forward like a bloodhound, seized Koko by his
coat-collar, and threw him on to the floor. Koko, however, nimble as a
kitten, wriggled through Jim's legs, overturning the Long 'Un in so
doing, and with a dexterous movement seated himself astride Jim's chest.
Jim puffed and fumed, and tried every trick he could think of to throw
off his assailant. But Koko was not easily beaten. A rough-and-tumble
with Mortimer was nothing new to him. For some time he resisted Jim's
efforts to dislodge him, and Jim was getting redder in the face every
moment.
"Make me eat 'em, will he!" cried Koko, exultingly, addressing Tom, the
big cat, who still often followed Jim to the surgery, and was now
watching the struggle with grave impartiality. "Not a long lamp-post
like this, without enough fat on him to grease a cart-wheel!"
Now, it's an old sporting saying that a good big 'un is better than a
good little 'un--it holds in boxing, wrestling, and many other forms of
athletics. Koko was a good little 'un, but Jim was a good big 'un, and,
though not of great girth, was immensely strong in the arms and back.
There is also an old saying that you shouldn't laugh till you're out of
the wood. Jim proved the truth of both sayings on this occasion, for,
just as Koko finished his taunting speech, Jim clutched him round the
ribs, and, with a prodigious output of nervous energy, threw the little
man clean over his head.
Koko flew crash into one of the rotten old pawn-broking cupboards with
which the place was lined, and such was the force with which he was
impelled that his head and shoulders went right through the door of the
cupboard. Before he could extricate himself, Mortimer had pinned his
hands to his sides.
"Will you give in?" demanded Jim.
"I will," murmured Koko from within the cupboard.
"And take what I owe you?"
"Yes--let me out of this old clo' hole, will you?"
"Certainly."
Thereupon, with a neat wrench, Jim liberated his friend, and Koko rose
to his feet, looking battered and sorry for himself.
"You ought to know better than to scrap with me, young fellow," said
Jim; "you ought to know it's no use."
Koko rubbed his bald head ruefully. "Give me a bran mash," he said;
"that winded me."
"Right you are," said the Long 'Un, taking a glass jar off one of the
shelves.
"Steady!" cried Koko, observing the label on the jar; "that's prussic
acid."
Jim, however, got two tumblers and proceeded to measure out a couple of
drams.
"No--I keep my whisky in this jar," he said, drawing some fresh water
from the tap; "it's safer here. Mrs Brown, my old lady upstairs, has a
liking for whisky, and used to help herself out of my bottle when I was
out--so I got a clean jar, put a prussic acid label on it, filled it
with whisky, and now she hunts in vain."
"Smart man, Jim," laughed Koko, who then proceeded to roll out the notes
and put them carefully away in his pocket-book.
"You see," said Jim, when they had settled themselves down by the fire,
"I've been catching on about here lately."
"Cutting out the bearded man?"
"Something like that. I was going down Pine Court soon after you last
looked me up, when I saw a group of women talking excitedly round a
doorway. I had a case on the top floor of the house. 'Wot I says is,' I
heard a very fat woman remark, 'there ain't no symptoms to go by. 'E
guessed it!'
"I always talk to these people, so, as I was passing into the house, I
said: 'Who guessed it?' They turned to me and began talking all at
once, and I gathered from their observations that the fat woman's little
girl was down with what our bearded friend at Taplow's had diagnosed as
small-pox. It appeared that he had made a report to the Medical Officer
of Health for this district, and that the hospital people's ambulance
was momentarily expected. The fat woman vehemently declared that our
bearded friend was wrong. 'What makes you think it isn't small-pox?' I
said. 'Why, doctor,' says she, 'my Annie ain't been sick, eats 'earty,
and sleeps sound, and is well in 'erself. 'E only went by the spots.'
'Well,' I said, 'they'll tell you at the hospital whether it's small-pox
or not.' But at that she began painting the air blue with her language,
and swore no ambulance men should touch the kid. After a time she asked
me to look at the child, but I explained that it was Dr Taplow's case,
and nothing to do with me. She then asked whether a lady couldn't take
two doctors' opinions on a case, and I replied that a lady certainly
could. 'Well, then,' says she, 'why shouldn't a pore woman like me?' I
recognised the justice of this, and, after I'd been to my case, I took a
look at the child. I saw at once it wasn't small-pox----"
"The chicken variety?" put in Koko.
"Not even that--simply blood out of order. I told her the child wanted
some medicine and more fresh air. As luck had it, the Medical
Officer--old Jackson--awfully nice chap--being scared by the report,
came with the ambulance himself, and corroborated my verdict. I had
cleared off by then, but the next time I went to Pine Court I found
myself famous, and ever since they've been coming to me instead of to
the bearded pard."
"Good," said Koko. "Have you caught him napping again?"
"Curiously enough, I have. He told a woman in Mount Street that her
husband--a plumber--was suffering from heart disease. His feet were
swollen, and he was pretty bad all over. However, she wasn't satisfied,
and came to me, and I found the fellow really had a congested liver. I
dosed him with calomel, and he was running up and down ladders again in
a few days."
"That was another ad.," said Koko.
"It was," said Jim. "Have another two-penn'orth?"
Koko nodded, and Jim was reaching for the mislabled bottle, when a
quaint metal Chinaman, that stood in the middle of the mantelpiece, fell
with a crash on to his face.
"Hullo!" cried Koko, much mystified, for neither he nor Jim had touched
the ornament.
Jim laughed. "That's all right--shows there's somebody at the front
door. You see there's a bell, but my callers don't always use it. Some
of them like to walk in, as the door opens when you turn the handle.
I've fixed up an arrangement of string, therefore, which causes that old
geezer to fall down when the front door is opened. Quite simple. I'll
show you the dodge in a minute."
Whilst he had been speaking, Jim had popped the prussic acid jar on its
shelf, and opened the door communicating with the waiting-room.
"Ah, Mr Harris! Good evening! Come in!"
The old provision dealer--for it was he--walked into the surgery. Koko
made as if he would withdraw, but Jim motioned to him to stop.
"I'm pretty near done, doctor," said Mr Harris, sinking wearily into a
chair; "my 'ead feels as if my 'air was bein' brushed more than ever.
And that velp--'e's gettin' more a caution every day. 'E tumbled to my
game, and marked the wrong 'orses for me to back--and my money's all
gone. Yes, vot vith 'im and my 'ealth, I vish I vos dead."
"You don't get enough fresh air, Mr Harris," said Jim.
"Fresh air!" cried the old man; "no, not a mouthful. Not likely. That
boy--that son of mine--Isaac--'e's a 'eartless young 'ound. Keeps 'is
old father vorkin' and vorkin' from seven in the mornin' till ten at
night. Fresh air! Vy, I falls asleep in my chair ven I've locked up
the shop!"
Koko and Jim looked sympathetic, but made no comment.
"Now 'e's boss," proceeded the old dealer--"now 'e's '_Arris_, and I'm
only the _Father_, there's no end to the airs he gives 'isself. Wears a
red veskit and a big chain and a norty turn-down collar like vot the
swells vear, and a check soot vich 'e got second-'and from a bookmaker.
There's no 'oldin' 'im!" declared Mr Harris, with a groan.
He paused a moment to wag his head sorrowfully, and then again took up
the tale of his woes.
"So vot vith Isaac, and vot vith this 'air brushin' a-always goin' on on
the top of me 'ead, I feel pretty near like throwin' myself inter the
river and settlin' it all that vay. Not that Isaac vould care--not 'e!
'E'd bury me as cheap as possible, and think it 'ard lines I vosn't
voshed out to sea instead of bein' brought 'ome to cause 'im expense!"
"Well, well," said Jim, soothingly, "I'll give you some medicine that'll
make you feel very much better, Mr Harris. You're run down, and that's
why you feel so despondent."
"The real reason vy," continued Mr Harris, as Jim got up to prepare the
medicine, "I don't do avay vith myself _is_, I vant to stay by Isaac's
side and go on varnin' 'im agen Rebecca Nathan. She's a designin'
minx--she's just leadin' Isaac on to get vot she can out of 'im."
"What--has your son got a young woman?"
"_Young_ voman! Vy, she's older than Isaac by ten years, and Isaac's
twenty-four. 'E's infatooated, is Isaac. 'E leans 'er photograrf agen
the corfee pot an' sighs venever 'e looks at it, and 'e puts it just
vare 'e'll see it ven 'e vakes in the mornin'. 'E bought her a flash
diamond brooch, but she noo better than to be took in that vay, so 'e
'ad to buy 'er a real one. She's the sharpest bit of female-goods in
Mount Street--father keeps the fried-fish shop by the 'Lord Nelson.'"
"I know the place," said Jim.
"'Eaps o' money," continued Mr Harris, "but do you think my son Isaac
vill ever get even a _sniff_ at it? Not 'e! Rebecca Nathan vill marry
a gentleman, doctor dear--she's only _usin_' Isaac!"
"Here's the medicine, Mr Harris. Take a wine-glassful after each meal."
"Vell, I don't believe any medicine in the vorld vill do me any good,"
said Mr Harris, "but I'll take it, so it von't be vasted. Yes, I'll be
gettin' back now. That velp Isaac, 'e's goin' to take Rebecca to a
music-'all--yes, in the two-bob seats. 'E never spent more than sixpence
on a seat in 'is life before. Larst veek 'e took 'er to 'ave 'er 'ead
told by a phrenologist feller, and then 'e 'ad 'is own told, and came
'ome with it all swelled up because the phrenologist said 'e 'ad a big
bump of locality and noo 'is vay about."
At that moment the surgery bell rang, and directly after the little
Chinaman fell bang on to his nose.
Jim opened the door of communication.
"It is your son," he informed Mr Harris. "Come in," he added,
addressing the caller.
The senior partner of the firm of Harris & Father strutted into the
surgery. For Mount Street, his attire was resplendent, though, to be
sure, the suit he had bought from the bookmaker seemed a couple of sizes
too large for him.
"Fader," he said, irritably, "'ow much longer am I to vait?"
"I'm comin', Isaac, I'm comin'," replied the old Jew, putting on his hat
and seizing his medicine with trembling hands; "I vos only takin' a
little advice for my 'ealth, Isaac."
"You vos takin' all the evenin' to take it," snapped Isaac; "come
on--quick!"
The old man nodded hurriedly to Jim and Koko, and left the surgery.
The young Jew turned to Jim.
"See 'ere," he said. "Ven my fader comes 'ere, send him 'ome sharp.
That's 'is place--'ome."
"Your father is not at all well," said Jim, "so when he comes here I
shall allow him to stay as long as he likes, if that is any comfort to
him."
"You've a nice sauce," said Master Harris, who felt very brave in his
loud toggery.
For reply, Jim inserted one finger inside Master Harris's collar,
conducted him (held thuswise) to the front door, and shot him into the
street. And when Jim discovered that Miss Rebecca Nathan was waiting
outside for Master Harris, and thus witnessed the latter's discomfiture,
he laughed a great laugh, and walked back to the surgery little thinking
that his short way with Isaac Harris was destined to bring dire ill upon
himself.
*CHAPTER XIX.*
*HARD PRESSED.*
On the day preceding the departure of the students from Matt's for the
brief Christmas vacation, things were very lively indeed at the
hospital.
Soon after breakfast, Tom Deadwood, one of the most dissipated
characters connected with the institution and Teddy Mildmay, his
faithful henchman and boon companion--celebrated for his speed of foot,
being, in fact, an old Cambridge "blue"--walked into the house-surgeon's
room looking bleared and dishevelled. Their story was that they had
careered about London in a four-wheel cab (and occasionally on the top
of it), with frequent stops for refreshment, until the small hours of
the morning, and finally found themselves in the vicinity of Covent
Garden market. Here Tom, who was a "bruiser" of parts, tackled a
gigantic porter, and after (according to his own account) "slaying" this
worthy, fought two other men, Mildmay contenting himself with inspiring
his friend with bits of ring wisdom, and at the conclusion of each
combat demanding cheers for the reigning monarch.
Eventually a policeman hove in sight in one direction, and three others
in three other directions, and then there ensued a chase of a most
varied and engrossing description, the market porters, who took a
sporting interest in the matter, giving the fugitives many tips as to
the best way to run in order to avoid capture. Mildmay, had he been by
himself, could have escaped easily, so fleet of foot was he, but Tom
Deadwood was blown by his series of scraps with the porters, so in the
end they were captured and afforded a night's lodging at Bow Street
police-station. At breakfast-time they were allowed to depart, Mr
Deadwood having told the superintendent that his mother, who had not
seen him for five years, was expecting him home early in the afternoon.
The superintendent grimly gave it as his opinion that the colour of her
boy's eyes and the state of his nose would give the poor lady a bit of a
shock. Having told their story to the Matt's staff, they cleaned
themselves and sallied forth in search of breakfast. After this they
settled themselves down to a long morning's beer and billiards.
Returning to the hospital about one o'clock, they found the red-haired
student, who has already figured in this story, marshalling a number of
his fellows preparatory to leading them out for a slight midday snack.
Having lined them up in single file--Messrs Deadwood and Mildmay taking
their places at the end of the line,--the Welshman placed himself at the
right hand of No. 1, and gave the word to "Quick--March!"
In perfect order and comic solemnity the students tramped out of the
hospital precincts, wheeled into the road, and proceeded along the
extreme outside of the pavement until they arrived at an A B C shop.
Obeying the word of command on the instant, and still preserving
splendid order, they wheeled into the establishment--their captain
holding the door open for them--and took their seats at a group of
tables.
The red-haired one approached a waitress.
"Sixteen scones, sixteen butters, and sixteen cups of coffee!"
The giggling girl having provided these refreshments, the students fell
to, and very soon the order was repeated. The Welshman then collected
eleven-pence from each man and paid the score, the extra penny a head
being levied as a douceur for the waitress. The students having
re-formed in line, the red-haired leader marched them back to Matt's in
the circumspect manner that had characterised their outward journey.
At tea-time came another march out and home, and at seven the Welshman
conducted his warriors to a restaurant, where, bearing in mind the
fragile nature of the two previous meals, he ordered sixteen steaks,
sixteen helps of two "veges," sixteen hunks of bread, sixteen tankards
of bitter ale, sixteen portions of currant pudding, sixteen slices of
cheese, sixteen pats of butter, and sixteen cups of coffee.
When they had consumed this homely but satisfying meal, the Welshman
again collected the amount necessary to discharge the bill, with
twopence extra per diner for the waiter. Then he once more marched his
men back to Matt's, there to deliberate on further proceedings.
"Pity the Long 'Un isn't here," observed Mr Deadwood, in the midst of
the discussion; "he was a fellow of great resource and suggestion.
Where's he got to?"
"Jim," said the red-haired one, "is earning money for a man named
Taplow, once of this hospital. That is the latest news of him, received
in September last."
"I thank you," said Mr Deadwood, with as much dignity as his discoloured
eyes and swollen nose rendered possible; "your reply, friend of the
Orange Locks, is direct and lucid, but conveys little information.
Speak further, Red Scalp, and put us on his trail!"
Mr Deadwood was addicted to the use of highly ornate language. He
insulted everybody in terms that were clothed with plumage of a
peculiarly offensive nature.
"Jim's new pitch is in Mount Street, Blackfriars," observed a student
who had been blessed by nature with beetle brows and very irregular
features.
"I thank you, Face," said Mr Deadwood, with simple courtesy.
The red-haired one moved that they should look Jim up. The motion being
agreed upon, the party started off in twos and threes, the Welshman
previously directing that Jim was not to be apprised of their visit
until all had assembled outside Taplow's surgery.
It was not a very far cry to Mount Street. Arrived there, and perceiving
a light in the surgery window, the Welshman turned the handle of the
street door and walked in.
"Jim's out," he announced, appearing on the threshold a few moments
later; "come on in."
They went in, and proceeded, while waiting for Jim, to amuse themselves
in a naive manner that was very upsetting to any compartment they
chanced to favour with their attentions. In point of fact, they turned
the surgery upside down, and were about to proceed with the still more
disconcerting operation of putting it straight again, when a bearded
gentleman appeared in the doorway and stared aghast at the confusion
they had wrought.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded, furiously.
"Waiting for Jim," said the Welshman.
"What do you mean? Who are you?"
"Go away," said Mr Deadwood, playfully discharging the contents of a
four-ounce syringe at the newcomer; "we don't want you to play with us!"
"Play with you! I'll have the police to you! I'll teach you to play
here!" thundered the bearded man, turning on his heel and hastening down
the street.
Jim's successor--for the bearded man was no less a personage--soon
returned well backed up by several representatives of the law.
"Now, then, what's all this foolery? Clear out of here at once!"
observed one of the latter, a stout sergeant.
The Welshman advanced. "We have come to see Dr Mortimer. You can't
turn us out of here unless he wishes us to be turned out."
"Get out--all of you!" was the sergeant's abrupt rejoinder.
"Before we get out," said Mr Deadwood, "tell us what right this
hairy-faced fellow has here, my excellent but somewhat overfed friend!"
"You'll find out what right he has here when you appear before the beak
to-morrow!" spluttered the sergeant.
"Corpulent people should avoid excitement," put in Mr Deadwood.
The sergeant glared at him and went on: "This here surgery is Dr
Taplow's, and this gentleman is in charge of it. You've come and broke
up the wrong place, and so we must take you to the station--that is to
say, if this gentleman wishes to charge you."
"Certainly," said the bearded man; "they have damaged the place, and
must pay for it."
The students looked ruefully at each other.
"We thought this was Dr Mortimer's surgery," one of them said.
"Dr Mortimer's is farther down the street," said the sergeant, "so
you've made a big mistake in playin' the fool here, and giving me cheek.
You've got to come to the station, every man jack of you, and the
quieter you come the better it will be for you in the morning."
Now the Welshman--acknowledged leader of the band--spoke up.
"Look here, bobby," he said, "we'll go to the station, but we're not
going to be marched off like pickpockets. If you keep to the left-hand
pavement, we'll keep to the right, and I'll give you my word of honour
for the lot that we won't cut."
The Welshman had a good pair of eyes, and the stout sergeant was an old
hand at summing up character at short notice. He conferred briefly with
his men.
"Very well," he said, at length, "I'll agree to that. First give me
your name and address, though."
The Welshman handed him his card. The sergeant made a sign, and the
police withdrew. Then the Welshman formed his men up in single file,
gave the word to "March!" and led them in good order out of the surgery
and down Mount Street, keeping them to the edge of the right-hand
pavement. The sergeant, true to his compact, kept his men to the
left-hand pavement, the bearded man walking sulkily by his side.
It is now necessary to return to Jim and his movements.
This had been a very hard day with the Long 'Un, who had been out and
about constantly, for there was much sickness in the district. Some of
Jim's frequent emergings were witnessed by young Isaac Harris, who, as
often as his duties in the shop permitted it, took up a position on his
step and watched the surgery door.
For, ever since Jim, before Rebecca Nathan's very eyes, had expelled
Isaac from his surgery in the manner recently described, Isaac had been
thirsting for revenge. And to-day an excellent idea had entered his
head. The chief of the Hooligans still looked in at the Harris emporium
for odd meals, and Isaac fancied that this nice gentleman would serve as
a convenient instrument in the matter of harming Dr Mortimer. Isaac
knew that the Hooligans bore Jim plenty of ill-will, and would be only
too pleased to get an opportunity to wreak their spite against him. And
it struck Isaac that their most favourable opportunity would occur at
night-time, when Jim was attending a patient in one of the narrow courts
in which the locality abounded.
The Hooligan leader had been in that afternoon, and Isaac had lost no
time in sounding him about Jim. The Hooligan's sentiments and hopes
were expressed in brief but blasphemous terms.
Now, Isaac knew what sort of metal Jim was composed of, and did not
believe in his heart of hearts that the Hooligans would ever succeed
in--as they elegantly put it--"outing" him; but he fancied they might be
able to hustle him and do him some serious harm, and that, Isaac
decided, would just suit _his_ book. He did not want them to murder
Jim, only hurt him.
That evening the Hooligan came in again and consumed a large meal which
heartened him up considerably, and filled him with a savage desire to
turn his hand against some of his fellow-beings. Kicking a policeman's
skull in would have formed a most delectable dessert to his repast.
As he was leaving the shop in his usual truculent manner, he found Isaac
lounging on the step.
"Good evening, sir," said Isaac, smoothly.
"Evening, guv'nor."
Isaac gazed at the other craftily. "Our dear doctor has been busy
to-day," he murmured.
The Hooligan spat on the pavement.
"'E's off again--just gone to Pine Court," added Isaac, carelessly.
An evil light glittered in the Hooligan's pig eyes. "Pine Court? 'Ow
d'yer know?"
"Saw a kid from the court fetch him."
Half a dozen friends of the Hooligan's were standing idly about near a
public-house close by. The Hooligan's glance fell on them. There was a
shady little tavern not much farther away, where half a dozen more would
certainly be "on call."
The Hooligan lit his short clay pipe, nodded to Isaac, and strolled
away. Isaac saw the man approach his pals and enter into conversation
with them. Then Isaac chuckled contentedly and went back to his work.
The case Jim had been called to was a serious one, and he was detained
over an hour in the wretched room the Pine Court urchin had conducted
him to. He drew a deep breath of relief when he at length quitted the
loathsome sleeping-den and walked down the dirty stairs into the
comparatively fresh air of the court below.
He was fumbling for his pipe, thinking to enjoy a smoke on his way back
to the surgery, when a sight met his eyes which, for a moment, made his
heart beat quickly. The narrow entrance to the court--whose opposite
end was a cul de sac--was completely blocked up by a gang of louts. A
glance showed him that their attitude was hostile to himself, and
another quick glance round and about made manifest the disturbing and
uncomfortable fact that he was absolutely cornered.
He knew, however, that it would be fatal to show the slightest fear or
hesitation. They meant mischief, and although, to the best of his
reckoning, they were twelve to his one, he saw he would have to go for
the lot.
He walked quickly and resolutely forward. As he came up to the gang,
the foremost of its members retired a few steps, for Jim's prowess was
well known to them. All but one--a stalwart ruffian who stood his
ground and leered up impudently at the young doctor.
"We've got yer this time," he said, exultingly.
For reply, Jim hit him, and as the man dropped to the ground with a howl
of pain, a knife fell from his nerveless hand.
Instantly the rest threw themselves upon Jim. A blow from a knobbed
stick crushed his hat in, and a belt-buckle, whizzing past his ear, cut
right through his coat and nipped his shoulder. Simultaneously he was
venomously kicked and struck on the body and legs. Still, no blow got
really home, and Jim, warming to the fight, left a bruise every time
either of his fists shot out. Several belts came swinging at his face;
he dodged them, then seized one, wrenched it out of its owner's hands,
and lashed back at them with the cruel buckle.
He was nearer the entrance of the court now, and as he fought, edged
still farther that way. Perceiving his design, the Hooligans massed
themselves between their single opponent and the outlet, and such were
their numbers that Jim had to retire towards the blind wall at the end
of the court.
Step by step Jim was being forced back. If he were to make a rush into
any of the houses he would be trapped still more surely. He was safer
in the open. But when he reached the wall, and could retire no farther,
the end must come, for the wall was unscalable, and he could not break
his way through this pack of human wolves.
Still, Jim was lashing out as furiously as ever with the belt, and the
curses of the Hooligans gave proof of the execution the heavy buckle
wrought amongst them. His hat was off, his face was bleeding, his
breath was coming in short, sharp gasps; they were all round him,
hemming him in, and in a few seconds he must have been down, when of a
sudden there was a great, boisterous cry, and Jim knew that help had
come.
"_Matt's! Matt's to the rescue! Hold up, Jim! Matts!_"
This was the call as the sixteen men from Matt's, headed by the Welshman
and Deadwood, came streaming into the court.
Unseen by the Hooligans, the small boy who had fetched Jim to his
mother, witnessing Jim's perilous situation, had crept out of the court,
and, encountering the students on their march down Mount Street, had, in
a few breathless words, informed them of the "doctor's" plight. If it
had been any other doctor they would have flown to the rescue, but they
guessed it was Jim, and, directed by the urchin, made a frantic rush for
Pine Court.
The Hooligans left Jim to face the new danger. The students and the
Mount Street ruffians met with a crash, and there was a short, sharp
_melee_.
But it was quite short. The Hooligans--under-sized wretches as many of
them were--had no chance against the students, most of whom were
athletes, and a few, like Deadwood, skilled fighters.
Jim's assailants were knocked down in all directions, and thrashed with
their own belts. When they got up it was to make a dash for the
entrance of the court, where they ran into the arms of the stout
sergeant and his merrie men. Each policeman held tight to a Hooligan,
and the students, pursuing hotly, captured others, but several got away.
Among the captured was the chief of the gang.
"This 'll mean five years for you, Jack Smith," said the stout sergeant,
"and serve you right, you dirty scoundrel!"
Mr Smith's reply need not be recorded.
But among those who remained at large was the big brute Jim had felled
to the ground. This man, in falling, had sustained a severe scalp
wound, and had crept out of the fight and up a dark staircase, where he
lay until the police disappeared, writhing with pain and vowing eternal
vengeance on Jim Mortimer.
*CHAPTER XX.*
*AFTER THE PLAY.*
"Dear old man!" said the red-haired student, wringing Jim's hand. "I'm
so glad we got here in time!"
The red-haired one then briefly recapitulated the events of the evening,
and just as he concluded his story the stout sergeant touched him on the
shoulder.
"My men have taken those rascals off to the station, sir," he said.
"It's a good haul, and we couldn't have got 'em if you gentlemen hadn't
helped. That being the case, I don't feel like taking you to the
station as well. Couldn't you arrange matters, sir, with the gentleman
at Dr Taplow's surgery?"
"Certainly, sergeant," said the red-haired one, who promptly approached
the bearded man, Mr Deadwood following in his wake.
"I say, you know, sir," said the red-haired one to the bearded man, "if
we've done any damage we shall be glad to make it good, don't you know.
You don't wish to take further proceedings, do you?"
"It was a most unwarrantable intrusion," rejoined the bearded man,
stiffly.
"I admit it," said the red-haired student.
"And we're sorry," added Mr Deadwood, "--beastly, awfully sorry."
Mr Deadwood accompanied this statement with a glance which was intended
to indicate that if he (the bearded man) didn't accept the red-haired
one's proposal, he (the bearded man) would get a jolly good punch in the
nose from him (Mr Deadwood).
The bearded man evidently interpreted the glance thus, for he replied:
"Very well, I will see what damage has been done, and send you the
bill."
"Right O!" said the red-haired one. "My name's Evans Evans, of Matt's."
"Matt's!" cried the bearded man. "Why didn't you tell me that before?
I'm a Matt's man!"
"You didn't look like a Matt's man, you see," explained Mr Deadwood in
his nice way.
"But I am a Matt's man," said he of the beard, "so I won't send in any
account."
"Thanks. But if we've done any serious damage, we'll pay for it.
That's only fair," responded the Welshman.
Jim had joined the group. "Well," he said, "I hope you'll all come
along to my place now and have some of the old poison."
"We will," said Mr Deadwood, with emphasis. "Come on, old cock," he
added, linking his arm in the bearded man's. "I believe you're not a
bad sort, in spite of your looks."
The bearded man wisely submitted to being led off in this way, and the
rest followed, Jim bringing up the rear with the Welshman. The stout
sergeant's friendliness had not been forgotten, for he arrived at the
police-station the wealthier by half-a-sovereign.
It was midnight before the students left Jim's surgery, and by that time
Jim and the bearded man were good friends, the latter having proved to
be by no means a "bad sort." Mr Deadwood insisted on making a note of
the bearded man's natal day, as he said he would like to send him a
birthday present. In parting, Mr Deadwood shook the bearded man warmly
by the hand several times, wished him a merry, merry Christmas, and
added that after all it was better to be healthy than handsome, and that
he saw no reason why he (the bearded man) should not, therefore, be
perfectly contented.
After this Mr Deadwood climbed into a cab and fell fast asleep. Edmund
Mildmay got in after him, and said it would be all right, he would "see
Deady home--merry Christmas everybody!" So they drove off amid the wild
hallooing of their fellow-students, who then chartered other cabs, and
drove off too, leaving Jim and the bearded man saying very nice things
to each other on the pavement. And so the evening ended in seasonable
fashion.
Christmas came on apace. Down at Threeways, Christmas was always kept
jovially, and Jim had been much in request everywhere. There were
skating and hockey, theatricals and dancing, and Jim had been the
central figure of all such activities and recreations. But, alas!
Threeways was now forbidden land to him.
Late in the afternoon of Christmas Eve, Jim sat by his surgery fire
smoking a solitary pipe. Paying Koko the twenty-five pounds had left
him with very light pockets, but he had bought a few presents. No. 9 was
now his home, so to speak, and he did not like to let Christmas pass
without recognising the fact in some way. So, earlier in the afternoon,
he had journeyed to Regent Street and wandered vaguely round a huge shop
which seemed to contain nothing else but what one would like to buy.
While waiting his turn, Mortimer found amusement in watching the crowd
of purchasers. Here was a boy hungrily eying a huge model yacht or
torpedo boat; there a girl, wistfully calculating whether she could
afford to give the price marked on the purse, or the letter-case, or the
inkstand she knew mother would _love_! Here were two sisters, holding a
whispered consultation; there a portly uncle, blandly making a big hole
in a ten-pound note for little nephews and nieces.
Christmas has not gone from us, although some soured folk say that this
sweet and holy season is not what it was. Christmas has certainly
conformed itself to the times, like everything else, but Christmas will
always be with us. Though there be no snow on the ground, no ice upon
the ponds, yet it will always be Christmas in our hearts.
Jim was at length brought to bay by a good-looking dark girl in a neat
black dress. There was a touch of Dora about her, and as she smiled in
a friendly way upon the very tall customer, Jim told her just exactly
what he wanted, and the dark girl's suggestions were so practical and
tasteful that his presents subsequently proved great successes. For
that voluble dame, Mrs Maybury, and her elder step-daughter, Miss H. R.
Maybury, he bought neat little velvet handbags of the kind ladies carry
when they take walks abroad; for Frank he got a huge knife, containing,
among other wonders, an implement for extracting stones from horses'
hoofs--no boy's knife, indeed, seems complete without this strange
appendage, which is never by any chance used for the humane purpose it
is intended for. For Dora, Jim bought a little writing-case made of
light brown leather. Upon the corner he had an initial "D" affixed, in
silver. This addition was expeditiously made while he waited. Jim knew
that he must be very discreet in the kind of present he gave to Dora, so
he chose something that looked quite simple, though, as a matter of
fact, the little writing-case cost him more than the other three
presents put together. The dark girl, with her quick instinct, seemed
to read in Jim's eyes that this was a _very_ special present, for Jim
looked at eleven other writing-cases before he fixed on the brown one.
The presents were packed up at last, and Jim told the dark girl he was
very much obliged to her, and that he was afraid he had given her a
great deal of trouble. But the dark girl said that he hadn't given the
slightest trouble, and hoped he would come there for his presents next
Christmas, which Jim promised faithfully to do.
When he got back to his surgery he made up some medicine, and then sat
down by the fire to smoke. And while he smoked he wondered whether his
grandfather was thinking of him, and whether they would ever be
re-united. Judging from his grandfather's stern silence, it seemed that
he and the dear old home at Threeways were destined to be strangers for
evermore.
Now it happened that the enterprising son of a Mount Street tradesman
had taken a snapshot of Jim one sunny November afternoon, as the Long
'Un was standing by his surgery door. The snapshot showed a good deal
of the building as well as its occupier, and made a good picture. The
youth had subsequently given Jim a mounted copy of the photo.
"I'll send the old man a Christmas card," said Jim, and straightway took
the photo off his mantelpiece and wrote upon its back: "_The present
quarters of your affectionate grandson, Jim. Wishing you a Happy
Christmas._"
He put his Mount Street address under this message, and on his way to
No. 9, posted the photo to his grandfather.
Christmas Day dawned bright and frosty, and passed off far more
pleasantly than Jim had anticipated. Those for whom Jim had bought
presents were genuinely surprised and pleased by Jim's thoughtfulness.
Mrs Maybury scrutinised Dora's face keenly as the girl opened the packet
addressed to her in Jim's handwriting. But Dora simply thanked Jim as
her sister had thanked him. She did not appear at all self-conscious,
and so Mrs Maybury, who had begun of late to regard Jim and Dora with
some suspicion, felt distinctly puzzled.
Frank was delighted with the knife, and for several days kept a sharp
look-out for a limping horse that might require a stone removed from its
hoof. But, as he afterwards told Jim, he didn't have any luck--probably
because "nearly all the streets were made of beastly wood."
By the first post on Christmas morning there arrived for Dora a
magnificent diamond brooch--Mr Jefferson's gift. At the same time Mr
Jefferson reminded her that he would be calling about seven o'clock on
Boxing Night to take her to the pantomime at Drury Lane.
At breakfast on Boxing Day Jim produced some yellow tickets. "There's a
big show on for children in the Mount Street Church Room to-night," he
said, "and I'm going to sing. Anyone care to come? It's a free show."
Mr Maybury quietly said that he would like a ticket, but nobody else
accepted Jim's offer, so, as he had several tickets at his disposal, Jim
gave one to Mary, and, later on, one to the old woman who looked after
his surgery.
Mr Cleave and Miss Bird, it should be mentioned, were spending Christmas
with relations--a fact which filled Jim with a feeling of devout
thankfulness.
There was a very early dinner at No. 9 that evening, as Mrs Maybury,
Miss "H.R.," and Frank were going to the pantomime at the Surrey
Theatre. Punctually at seven, Mr Jefferson arrived and bore Dora,
radiant and blushing, off to Drury Lane. The others went out about the
same time, Mary trotting off to the Church Room in advance of Mr Maybury
and Jim in order to secure a good seat.
So No. 9 remained locked up and tenantless until a quarter past eleven,
when Mr Maybury arrived home.
The others trailed in half an hour later, Frank bursting with laughter
over the antics and wheezes of the principal low comedian. Between
twelve and one Dora and Mr Jefferson came.
Dora, strangely silent, went to her room at once. Mr Jefferson, on the
other hand, seemed much elated, and chatted gaily for some minutes
before he took his departure.
Dora had not been in her room long before there came a little tap at her
door, followed by the entrance of Mary.
"Oh, Miss, I'm sure you must be tired," said Mary; "may I help you?"
"If you like, Mary; yes, I am very tired."
Dora sighed as she sat down in front of her glass. Mary hastened to comb
and brush her young mistress's hair. It was like old times to Dora,
having her hair brushed by a maid--the old times when Mr Maybury was
wealthy and held his head high in the commercial world. But now, alas!
he was only a clerk in the office of the man who had taken Dora to the
theatre that night! Her diamonds came from the man who paid her father
a weekly wage!
"Oh, Miss, wasn't the pantomime _lovely_?"
"Yes, it was very nice," replied Dora, absent-mindedly. Then, rousing
herself a little, she said: "And did you enjoy the concert, Mary?"
"Oh, Miss Dora, it was grand! And so was the doctor, Miss!"
"Did he sing well?"
"_Sing_! I should think he did! You should 'ave 'eard 'em larf! They
wouldn't let 'im leave off. They clapped and 'oorayed every time--them
children--till I thought they'd never stop. Funny ain't the word. I
very nearly split in 'arf, Miss! There was five hundred children, and
'eaps of other folk, and the vicar and 'is curates, and their lady
friends--and they larfed as much as the children did, Miss. And right
at the end 'e sang a little song--to finish with--which was funny at
first, and then made you feel you'd like to cry. And the kiddies kept
quite quiet in that part--they seemed to understand, Miss. And when
he'd done, Miss, he bowed to all the children just as if they were lords
and ladies, and it was real pretty to see the little girls kiss their
hands to 'im, and the doctor kiss his hand back to them! Everybody
enjoyed it, and them kids went 'ome as 'appy as if they'd each found a
shillin'."
Mary dilated on the concert at great length, but she went off at last,
and Dora was still sitting thoughtfully before the glass when there came
yet another knock at her door.
She rose from her chair and went to see who it was. "May I come in a
moment, dear?"