"We may. He'll be unconscious for a week. When he comes round we shall
be able to tell better."
Then the specialist turned to Dr Mortimer.
"I will do my best for your boy, sir. He may live. I cannot say with
certainty. A great deal depends on the nursing. I'll come to-morrow.
Good-day.
Soon after the two surgeons had driven off, Koko arrived at No. 9. He
had satisfied the magistrate that he had shot the Hooligan because his
own life was threatened, and had subsequently given some solid evidence
against the six prisoners, all of whom were committed for trial. Koko,
however, had still to attend the inquest on the dead Hooligan, to be
held two days later, and exonerate himself from all blame.
Mr Maybury introduced Koko to Dr Mortimer.
"This is your grandson's great friend--Mr Somers."
They shook hands.
"I thought your name was Coke," said the old Doctor.
"Jim calls me Koko because I am rather bald," explained Somers, meekly.
"And you saved Jim's life last night?"
"I shot----"
"Yes, I read about that in the paper. Will you shake hands with me
again? ... and now please take me round to my boy's surgery. I've only
seen a photograph of it up to the present."
Side by side the wealthy Eastfolk doctor and the little sporting
reporter walked out of Derby Crescent into the bustling Blackfriars
Road, and presently wheeled out of that thoroughfare into Mount Street.
"What a detestable district!" exclaimed Dr Mortimer as they were passing
the Nathans' fried fish shop, from which proceeded a by no means
delectable odour of hissing horse fat.
"It's Jim's country," said Koko.
"Is he popular round here?"
"They love him," said Koko.
The old Doctor's face just then was a study. He may have been thinking
of Threeways, where he had resided for so many years without endearing
himself to a single soul.
"What sort of a living has my grandson made here?" he asked presently.
"Oh, he has scraped along."
Dr Mortimer cleared his throat.
"When he was at Matthew's he used to run up very extravagant tailors'
bills--indeed, he ran up extravagant bills of all kinds."
"I know he did," said Koko.
"I expect," continued Dr Mortimer, "he has rather missed that sort of
thing over here."
"He hasn't had any new things since he's been here," said Koko.
The Doctor cleared his throat again. "I presume--er--I presume he had
sufficient clothes?"
"Oh yes--but last winter's things had to do, you know."
The Doctor was silent for some moments. The Jim who could make old
things do was not the Jim he had known. Jim, up to last September, had
always been fastidious about the cut of his coats, and most partial to
fancy waistcoats. Not that the Doctor had really minded paying for
them--in fact, he had liked to see Jim well-turned-out. What he had
objected to was Jim's utter disregard of even moderation in expenditure.
And to think that this same Jim had been making last winter's things
"do"!
The Doctor reflected a good deal on Koko's replies. It occurred to him
that if he had tried to understand Jim better in the past, this split
would never have occurred. He had thundered rebukes at Jim much as an
army sergeant would upbraid a refractory private, and Jim, in return,
had simply been cheeky. Now, supposing he had reasoned with the lad in
a kindly, gentle manner, would that not have proved more effectual than
inditing fierce epistles to his grandson, when the latter was in town,
or shouting a lecture to him across the telephone, as on that September
morning of vivid remembrance?
Jim had never known a mother's care. He had been brought up by his
grandfather, who had taken a pride in him such as a man takes in a
handsome horse or dog. And so Jim ran wild, and, in the end, was
expelled from Threeways.
Such were the thoughts that coursed through the old Doctor's mind as he
paced down Mount Street by the side of George Somers.
"Here we are," said Koko at length.
So this was Jim's surgery! The old Doctor halted and stared at the
shabby-looking corner building. This was where Jim had been getting his
living since he had been barred from the old roof-tree in Eastfolk!
[Illustration: SO THIS WAS JIM'S SURGERY]
"Did he rent the entire building?" inquired Dr Mortimer.
"Yes. It was a pawnbroker's place before Jim took it."
"Great heavens! And why did he allow these abominable placards to be
pasted on his walls?"
"The old chap who let him the place wanted some money, so Jim made him a
present of the outside of the house for advertising purposes," explained
Koko.
The Doctor looked amazed.
"Dear! dear! What a quixotic notion!"
"Jim was always like that," said Koko.
The old Doctor bit his lip and again frowned upon the posters. Filling
the bill this week at the local theatre was a play in which a
steam-roller was the principal attraction. A poster, cunningly attached
to Jim's wall, just where his red lamp would shine upon it after dusk,
depicted the steam-roller descending a narrow hill at top speed, while
directly in its track lay a young woman in evening dress, and apparently
unconscious. The poster had attracted half the adult population of
Mount Street to the theatre.
"Now I come to think of it," said the Doctor, "I remember something of
this kind was visible in the photograph of the place which James sent me
at Christmas. It represented a man throwing another man--or a woman,
possibly a woman--out of a balloon. I suppose these dreadful pictures
are changed every week?"
"Yes, something fresh every Monday," said Koko.
"Dear, dear me! To think of it!"
"It didn't matter to Jim," put in Koko; "he was rather amused by the
posters."
"And who was the man who prevailed upon James to part with his walls in
this philanthropic manner?" inquired the Doctor.
"A provision dealer called Harris."
At that moment Koko felt a touch on his arm, and wheeled round to find
old Harris himself at his elbow.
"Mr Somers, sir, seeing you standin' 'ere, I've come to ask after the
doctor. All Mount Street wants to know 'ow 'e is. Is he like to die?"
"There is hope, but not much. You know yourself how badly he was
knocked about."
"Yes, I know that. Yes, and I pretty near screwed that 'unchback's 'ead
orf, so 'elp me!" returned the provision dealer, with a savage chuckle.
"Are you the man mentioned in the newspapers as having fetched the
police?" Dr Mortimer demanded of Mr Harris.
"Yes, I'm the man," was the answer--"I fetched 'em. You see, last night
I goes into Dr Mortimer's surgery and svallows vot I took for prussic
acid. Yes, 'arf a pint. And vile I vos vaitin' for the end, I fell
asleep, and ven I vakes the doctor vos standin' by me. Vell, 'e tells
me it vosn't p'ison, and then 'e goes orf to Pine Court. Vell, just
after, in comes Mr Somers, and says 'e: 'Vare is the doctor?' an' I
says: ''E's gone to vare it mentions in that bit of paper.' 'Pine
Court,' says Mr Somers. 'Mrs Murphy's.' 'Mrs Murphy don't live in Pine
Court,' says I. 'I knows all the people in these courts.' Mr Somers 'e
looks startled, and reads the note again. 'This looks fishy, 'Arris,'
he says; 'this writin's in a disguised 'and.' I gets up and looks at
the note, and I sees at once it vos my son Isaac's 'andwritin'----"
"Your son's!" exclaimed Dr Mortimer. "Do the police know that?"
"They don't," replied Mr Harris; "and for vy? Vy, for becos I says to Mr
Somers: 'This is a trap,' I says, 'and ve'll be after the doctor and
save 'im. But I'll 'elp you on one condition only.' 'Vot's that?' says
Mr Somers, sharp like. 'That you don't split on Isaac! You agree to
that, an' I'll lend you this revolver!' I vos goin' to shoot myself at
first, you see, sir, an' then I thought p'ison vould be cleaner.
'Agreed,' says Mr Somers, and off ve goes, I to fetch the police and Mr
Somers straight for Pine Court, vith the loaded revolver in 'is pocket."
"And this scoundrel of a son of yours--where is he?" demanded the
Doctor.
The old man laughed softly to himself.
"My son Isaac? '_E's bolted_! 'E vent at once--vithout a vord. I
says: 'Isaac,' I says, 'you wrote that note. You're in my power.
You'll 'ang if I put up my little finger!' And Isaac, 'e just vent
right out of the door vithout even puttin' on 'is 'at! 'E von't trouble
me no more, but 'e'll always get a livin'. 'E's clever as paint, is
Isaac! Yes, 'e vent out like that--never saw a man go out of a 'ouse so
quick in my life. So I've altered the name over my shop back to '_Arris
& Son_--there's the painter just finishin'--and now I'm my own master
agen."
And the old dealer snapped his lean fingers for sheer joy.
"Why 'Harris & Son,' if your son has run away for good?" asked Dr
Mortimer.
"Becos 'Arris by itself vould cause remark. If anyone says: 'Vare's
your son, Mr 'Arris?' I shall say, '_E's gone avay for 'is 'ealth,_' and
that'll 'ave to satisfy 'em."
And with a leer of the utmost self-complacency Mr Harris saluted his two
listeners, and went back to watch the painter conclude the alteration in
the title over the provision shop.
Mrs Brown, Jim's caretaker, was in, and admitted Koko and his companion.
The old doctor gazed silently round the surgery. There was Jim's
working coat, there was his pipe-rack, there was the quaint Chinaman
whose sudden fall forwards--ingeniously contrived by the Long 'Un--used
to announce the opening of the street door.
"I should never have thought," murmured the Doctor, "that Jim would have
settled down in a place like this."
"He did settle down, though," said Koko, "and he was working it up into
a good thing when this horrible plot was laid for him."
"We must keep it going, then," said the Doctor. "Do you suppose any of
his friends at the hospital would be willing to act in his place?"
"Sure of it," said Koko. "I think you had better ask Evans--a
red-headed man--and Deadwood. They are both friends of Jim's."
"I'll go and see them at once," said the Doctor, "and then I must get
back to Threeways. I have some patients I cannot leave for long."
"What about the hoarding?" asked Koko.
"Well," said the Doctor, "considering the service Mr Harris rendered
last night, I think we ought to let him continue to make money out of
Jim's walls."
And so, thereafter, each Monday saw a fresh pictorial embellishment of
the surgery's exterior; every Monday the youth of Mount Street was
thrilled to the marrow by new scenes of derringdo of lovely ladies in
peril and gallant gentlemen dashing to their assistance, and of virtue
triumphing over vice, as always virtue will do so long as there remain
in the world good women and honourable men.
And the transpontine drama reaped many sixpences thereby.
*CHAPTER XXX.*
*THE WEEK PASSES.*
True to the prognostication of the great Trefusis, Jim Mortimer remained
unconscious for seven days. During that time, liquid food--beef extract
and milk--was poured down his throat, and thus the lamp of his life was
kept alight. At the end of the week, Jim, emaciated and hollow-cheeked,
opened his eyes, and the first person he caught sight of and addressed
was, appropriately enough, his friend George Somers.
"Well, young feller!" he said, with a brave attempt to smile in his old,
cheery way.
Koko took his hand and pressed it gently.
"You must get well quick now, Jim, old boy."
"It isn't in me," said Jim.
"But you must. Oh, Jim, please buck up and get well!"
Jim tried to shake his head, and the agonising pain which this slight
action caused him brought the perspiration out on his face.
"I'm too far gone, dear old chap," he murmured. "I know it."
Koko gently bathed his friend's damp face with a sponge dipped in some
cool, soothing lotion. His touch was as soft as a woman's. The trained
nurse, when she went out for her daily ride on the top of a 'bus, knew
that she was leaving her patient in good hands when she left him with
Koko.
"That's great," muttered Jim, and fell into a doze.
As Koko kept watch by his chum's bedside, his kindly brown eyes became
dim and misty. Could it be that he was to lose Jim after all? he
wondered. Oh no, that could not be! Surely this great, honest fellow
would be spared! He was so young--hardly more than a boy--and had lived
such a little time.
Surely, thought Koko, in his simple faith, God would take that into
consideration. _He_ would remember how young Jim was, and remember,
too, that in spite of all the knocking about and drinking and ragging he
had done, Jim had never once been guilty of a dishonourable action. He
had lived a clean life, and such errors of conduct as he had been guilty
of had been due rather to his careless, happy-go-lucky nature than to
vicious inclination. He had knocked policemen down and painted the town
blue, but he had been a gentleman through it all. The policemen always
seemed to feel that, apart from the apologies and sovereigns he had
subsequently applied to their bruises as healing balm of a practical
kind.
The matter with Jim had been--until a few months since--that he had
always had too liberal a supply of pocket money to draw upon down at
Threeways. Consequently, unscrupulous fellow-students had borrowed from
him and never troubled to repay him; consequently, it was always Jim who
stood treat; consequently, he had got into disgrace and earned the
penalty of banishment.
Such were Koko's sad reflections as he sat by the sick-bed. Presently
he looked at his watch, and discovered that he had just forty minutes in
which to get his bag from his rooms in the Adelphi, and then catch a
north-going express. For that night he was due to referee at a glove
fight, at Gateshead, between Micky Brown, the Northumberland
middle-weight champion, and Jake Morris, of Bethnal Green. He had also
to wire a half-column report of the fight to the _Sporting Mail_.
So he had, perforce, to leave Jim, not knowing whether he would ever see
him alive again. For Trefusis had said that the forty-eight hours
following Mortimer's return to consciousness would decide his fate.
Jim was still dozing. One of his hands lay limply on the coverlet of
the bed. Koko laid his right hand upon it and gazed at the white face
and the boyish, close-clipped head in its snowy bandages.
"Good-bye, Jim!" he murmured, and went softly round to the door. He
expected the nurse back about this time. If she had not come in he
would have to ask Miss Bird to sit with Jim, as Miss Bird had already
taken turns with Koko, Mr Maybury, and the trained nurse in sick-room
duty.
Koko was looking back for the last time at the still form of his friend,
the sadness of his heart showing very visibly in his face, when the
handle was turned and the trained nurse came in, fresh and rosy from her
ride in the keen air. She was a bonny Scotswoman--quite a little
thing--with blue eyes and flaxen hair.
"Are you going so soon, Mr Somers?" she said.
"Yes, I haven't a moment to lose. I have to catch a train for
Newcastle."
A third person, watching the two faces, would have noticed a shadow of
disappointment fall across the little nurse's pretty face. A third
person--such as Miss Bird or Dora--would possibly have deducted a
certain fact from this shadow. And a third person, watching Koko and
Jim's nurse clasp hands in bidding each other good-bye, would have
smiled to herself and looked another way, for it would seem that the
parting of these two was not without a touch of feeling which had
nothing whatever platonic about it.
Well, Koko caught his train, and ten hours later was the central figure
of an almost indescribable inferno. For, as neither man had been
knocked out in the twenty rounds to which the contest was limited, Koko,
according to rule, had awarded the fight to the London man "on points."
Whereupon had arisen such a hurricane of yells and oaths from the miners
and shipwrights with which the hall was crammed, that a man with less
pluck might well have been appalled. But the little bald-headed
reporter from London stood his ground, and looked calmly upon the
infuriated faces and forest of horny fists that surrounded the ring.
"Jake Morris wins," he said again, during a lull in the storm, "_on
points_."
And again the miners--most of whom had money on the local pet--howled
like wolves.
The police inspector standing near Koko whispered a warning.
"Go out by the extra exit," he said; "they won't be looking for you
there."
Koko, without looking round, nodded, and, having made certain necessary
entries in his note-book, took the inspector's hint, and made such good
time over the high level bridge into Newcastle that he was safe in the
smoking-room of his hotel while a mass of drink-inflamed Northumbrians
were still awaiting his appearance at the stage door.
From the sick-room to this scene of unbridled brute passions--a change
indeed! But Koko took it coolly, as part of the day's work--sent off
his report, snapped up some supper, and went to bed, and by eight next
morning was speeding back to London and Jim, with a sixpenny
novel--upside down on his knees.
During these seven days, events had been treading quickly on each
other's heels.
Harold Jefferson, knowing perfectly well that Mr Maybury thoroughly
intended that he should be taken at his word with regard to the
marriage, had not attempted to see Dora. As a matter of fact, he had
entertained doubts for some time past with regard to Dora's affection
for himself, and her father's unexpected call at the Albany that night
had made it doubly plain to the young stockbroker that Dora Maybury,
even though she might be prevailed upon eventually to marry him, was not
likely ever to prove a very affectionate wife.
So Jefferson, instead of putting on his wedding clothes, informed his
best man (the only guest invited on his side) that the marriage had been
postponed owing to an illness in Dora's family, and that he (Jefferson)
was off to Nice.
To Nice, therefore, he went, expecting to meet his father there and
explain the situation to him. But, unfortunately for this plan,
Jefferson senior made up his mind that very day to cut his visit short
and return to London.
Two days after the date fixed for the wedding, therefore, Mr Jefferson
arrived at his office in Cornhill to find that his cashier had been run
over and seriously injured by an omnibus, and also that he was a
book-keeper short, "Mr Harold," before his departure for Nice, having
notified the manager to the effect that Mr Maybury had decided to
relinquish his post in the firm. "Mr Harold" gave no reasons--he simply
stated the fact. The manager therefore presumed that Mr Maybury had
obtained a better job.
So far from having secured a more lucrative post, Mr Maybury had been a
prey to considerable anxiety. Being his wife's property, he had no rent
to pay for No. 9 Derby Crescent, and so he was always certain of having
a roof over his head. The weekly sums paid by Miss Bird, Mr Cleave, and
Jim went into his wife's pocket for housekeeping purposes. Out of the
princely salary of L150 a year which he had received from the
Jeffersons, Mr Maybury had had to pay rates and taxes, defray Frank's
schooling expenses, and contribute towards his family's clothing bill.
It will therefore be readily comprehended that he himself was not able
to indulge in a very sumptuous midday meal, or pander to his own modest
wants in any but a most economical manner.
When, therefore, the ex-merchant explained to his wife that he was no
longer employed by the Jeffersons, and why, such a shower of vicious
invective descended upon his unfortunate head that he felt strongly
inclined to take a steerage passage to the States and there
endeavour--with his extensive knowledge of the cotton trade--to retrieve
his fallen fortunes. He was, in point of fact, actually looking through
the shipping advertisements with the laudable object of finding the
cheapest line by which it was possible to cross the Atlantic, when he
received a wire from Jefferson senior desiring him to attend at the
office with the least possible delay. When he returned in the evening,
Mr Maybury informed his wife that Mr Jefferson had appointed him cashier
to the firm at a salary of L300 per annum, _vice_ the gentleman who had
been run over by the omnibus, whose injuries, it appeared, had proved so
serious that Mr Jefferson had decided to pension him off.
"And what did Mr Jefferson say about Dora?" inquired Mrs Maybury, when
she at length came to the end of her eloquent expressions of
satisfaction.
"He said," replied Dora's father, "when I had explained the
circumstances to him, that he considered I had acted quite rightly."
"And Harold?"
"Will stay at Nice till the spring."
Thus did the wheel of Fortune, in its strange revolutions, bring Mr
Maybury once more a modest sufficiency of Income. He had not hesitated
a moment in accepting the vacant post and the additional salary, for he
knew that he was quite capable of doing the work, and that he would not
be receiving a penny too much for the responsibility and the trouble his
new duties would involve.
"I think," said Mr Maybury, just before he and his good lady fell asleep
that night, "that we might now engage a cook. H. R. deserves a rest."
"Very well, dear," said Mrs Maybury, quite amicably.
"And then, as to Miss Bird and Mr Cleave----"
"Oh, they had better stay on," interrupted Mrs Maybury; "three hundred a
year, though magnificent compared to what you have been getting, is not
a very great income. Miss Bird and Mr Cleave will still be a great
help."
"I have altered my opinion about Miss Bird," said Mr Maybury; "I am
beginning to like her."
"And do you still consider Mr Cleave an 'old woman'?" inquired Mrs
Maybury.
"I do," said Mr Maybury--"an older woman than ever. If he wants to go,
I shan't beg him to stop."
Curiously enough, within a few days Mr Cleave put Mr Maybury's
declaration to the test. For, on the day Jim recovered consciousness,
Mr Cleave informed Mrs Maybury that he had decided to go and live with
some relatives at Norwood. Mrs Maybury said that she should be sorry to
part with Mr Cleave, but Mr Maybury preserved a discreet silence on the
point.
And it fell out in this wise.
Mr Cleave had always admired Dora, and had always exerted himself to be
agreeable to her. When, therefore, Dora's engagement with Harold
Jefferson was broken off, Mr Cleave began to pay a large amount of
attention to his appearance. He bought some new made-up ties and some
new collars of the latest shape; also, he had his hair cut, and
purchased a new pair of button-up boots.
At all meals, thenceforth, he engaged Dora in sprightly conversation,
and one day, meeting her alone in the drawing-room, he handed her a
book.
"A little present, Miss Dora," he said.
"Oh, thank you, Mr Cleave," said Dora, politely.
On examining the work, Dora found it to consist of _The Total Abstainer_
for the past six months, bound up in a green cover. Glancing casually
through it, she suddenly came across a passage heavily marked with a
blue pencil. The page on which the passage occurred was headed "Our
Pillory," and directly Dora's eye fell on the paragraph she recognised
it as an old friend.
"A piteous example of what over-indulgence in alcohol may bring a man to
(_ran the paragraph_) 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----"
Oh yes! Dora _well_ remembered a certain evening in September when Mr
Cleave read this out to the assembled company in the drawing-room.
"Do you know, Mr Cleave," she said, sweetly, "I am afraid this book will
be _rather_ thrown away on me. _I_ don't drink----"
"There are some excellent tales illustrating the evils----" Cleave was
protesting, when Dora interrupted him.
"Yes, but they are hardly the kind of tales girls care to read. It is
very kind of you to give me this volume, but I feel you could bestow it
better elsewhere."
"As you like--as you like," said Cleave, looking much offended.
"But," said Dora, producing a tiny pair of scissors from her chatelaine,
"there is one paragraph I should like to cut out, if you don't mind.
This one, look...."
Mr Cleave looked--and turned pale. He had entirely forgotten having
marked that report of Jim's wrong-doing.
"You see," explained Dora, a bright flush irradiating her face, which
had been very wan and pensive all this week of dire suspense, "I take a
great interest in the--the person this paragraph is about."
Then she quickly snipped the paragraph out and put it safely away in her
purse.
"Thank you so much, Mr Cleave," she said, handing back the volume.
And so Mr Cleave, after giving the matter due reflection, decided that
he couldn't do better than go to live with his relatives at Norwood. He
had always fancied that they didn't understand him at No. 9. He felt
quite sure about it now.
*CHAPTER XXXI.*
*IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT THE BEARDED
MAN HAD MADE ANOTHER MISTAKE.*
Mr Evans Evans, of the red hair, and Mr Deadwood, the truculent and
filibustering, having recently (after an eight or nine years' struggle)
obtained their qualification, accepted Dr Mortimer's invitation with
alacrity. Yes--certainly they would look after the Long 'Un's practice.
Only too pleased. Start at once and share proceeds? Right O!
They were both capable men, and so they found it quite within their
power to cope with the work in Mount Street and its environments. True,
Mr Evans did the brunt of the work, but Mr Deadwood had his uses.
For, taking into consideration the manner in which the Long 'Un and his
predecessor had been handled by the Hooligans of the neighbourhood, Mr
Deadwood, after due thought, decided that the thing was to take a strong
line with such roughs as might assume a hostile, or even an impertinent,
attitude towards himself and his colleague. There were still a good
many Hooligans about, and the colour of Mr Evans's hair provoked a
variety of rude jests from a group of them on the afternoon of the day
Messrs Evans and Deadwood started operations in this district.
The first guffaw had hardly sounded out upon the raw February air when
Mr Evans smote the nearest humorist on his nose, and Mr Deadwood knocked
the principal guffawer's head against the wall that was supporting his
idle form. The other Hooligans objecting to this species of rebuke, a
spirited free fight was soon in progress. But, after Covent Garden
porters, Mr Deadwood found the weedy louts of Mount Street comparatively
mild customers to tackle, and he laid about him with such energy that
the group of Hooligans soon decamped with many oaths and much gnashing
of such teeth as Jim's deputy had left in their gums.
In brief, Mr Deadwood, who had been a scrapper from his birth, and who
had only been knocked out in fair fight once in his life--his opponent
on that occasion being James Mortimer--established what is called a
"funk" in Mount Street, for, after his primary bout with the Hooligans,
the mere sight of his great shoulders and bull-dog jaw caused such
law-breaking vagabonds as he might meet in the course of his rounds to
slink off rapidly down dark alleys and tortuous byways in order to avoid
him.
"The fact is," said Mr Deadwood one day, "Jim was much too gentle with
these chaps. He didn't hurt 'em enough. By George! when I think how he
was served, I feel inclined to go for every pub-propper-up I meet."
And indeed, Mr Deadwood's countenance wore such a pugilistic expression
whenever he walked abroad--which was a good many times daily--that the
local Hooligans began to decamp to less perilous quarters, and Mount
Street in time came to be quite a respectable thoroughfare for those
parts.
Occasionally Messrs Evans and Deadwood, having finished their day's
work, would go to see Jim. The little Scottish nurse took care that
they did not talk very much, and so the partners found their visits to
No. 9 hardly what one would call lively excursions, though it is true
they took a certain pleasure in calling there, for Mr Evans quickly came
to the conclusion that the trained nurse was "a nice little thing,"
while Mr Deadwood, after talking to Dora, would fall into a strangely
sentimental and melancholy mood. A few pints of bitter ale, however,
served to dispel his gloom in the long run, and then he would hie forth
and search for Hooligans, and the latter had a bad time if he happened
to find them.
One evening, when the partners called at No. 9, they were told that they
couldn't see Jim, as Dr Trefusis and Sir Savile Smart were with him. Mr
Evans therefore challenged Miss Bird to a game of draughts, and Mr
Deadwood favoured Dora and Frank with a lurid account of the various
battles he had fought during his hospital career. It was not an
improving discourse, and as a consequence of it Frank came home the next
day with a black eye, the result of having engaged a much larger boy
than himself in fistic combat.
The outcome of the specialists' conversation with Messrs Evans and
Deadwood, after a rigorous examination of Jim's injuries, was that Mr
Deadwood called on the bearded man when the latter was discussing tea
and crumpets on the following afternoon.
"Oh, how do you do?" said the bearded man rather stiffly, as he rose
from the table.
He had observed the arrival of the partners in Mount Street with some
misgivings, for he recognised them as members of the Matt's band that
laid waste his surgery. He did not go out of his way to renew his
acquaintance with them, and trusted they would not take the initiative
in that respect. However, in view of the ferocious character his
patients had given Mr Deadwood, he thought it would be as well to be
polite to him.
"Don't let me disturb you," said Mr Deadwood; "I have only dropped in to
tell you, in the plainest way the mind of man is capable of conceiving,
that you are an ass!"
"What reason have you for saying this?" demanded the bearded man,
coldly.
"In the sublimity of your ignorance," explained Mr Deadwood, "added to
your coruscatingly conceited idea that you know anything whatever about
the human frame, you informed a sporting gentleman of my acquaintance
that Jim Mortimer would only last twenty-four hours."
"Yes," said the bearded man, "I said that, and I meant it. Is he still
alive?"
"Man, man!" exclaimed Mr Deadwood, "it hurts me to think that you come
from Matt's--a place that has bred many eminent surgeons, including
myself and my friend of the carmine tresses."
"Is Mortimer still alive, then?" reiterated the bearded man.
"He is so alive," returned Mr Deadwood, "that Trefusis says he will be
playing cricket in June! Wherefore, what price _your_ diagnosis of his
hurts, my whiskered fakir?"
"I am surprised to hear it," said he of the beard.
"Of course you are," exclaimed Mr Deadwood, "and why? Because you are
an ass. Sir, you ought to take a job on an Australian liner. You would
find little to do except consume meals and inhale ozone. Going out,
possibly there would be a few sick infants, and a gentleman afflicted
with what is politely called the 'drink habit'! You would help the
latter on his way to a watery grave, and no one would mind. Coming
home, you might pick up a soldier from Egypt with dog-bite, bound for
the Pasteur Institute. You would cut off his leg and think you had
cured him. So why not get a liner job, my hairy false prophet?"
"Please moderate your language!" exclaimed the bearded man, shortly.
"Tut! tut! Go to!" replied Mr Deadwood; "I am only giving you these
hints for your good. You ought not to doctor human beings, bar pirates
or Esquimaux. Why not turn vet. and specialise in elephants? They take
a lot of killing."
"I think you are very rude," protested the bearded man.
"Pulling out horses' teeth isn't a bad-paying business, either,"
continued Mr Deadwood. "You use forceps about as large as tongs. They
would just suit your delicate touch."
"Everybody is liable to make mistakes," pleaded the bearded one.
"But when a man practising medicine makes the mistakes you do," returned
Mr Deadwood, "he had better set up at once as secret agent--on a liberal
salary--to a necropolis company."
But the bearded man was only half-listening to his visitor.
"I can't understand it," he muttered; "he was frightfully injured."
"But he's frightfully tough," rejoined Deadwood: "footer, rowing,
cricket--all good for the spine. He'll get well! Ahem! Sorry to have
to suggest it myself, but have you got any tea to give away to a thirsty
apothecary?"
"Certainly. Sit down and have a cup."
"I will," said Mr Deadwood. "As I have previously remarked, you're not
a bad sort. After all, you can't help being an ass. _You_ condemned
Jim to death, and Trefusis has reprieved him. Two lumps and plenty of
milk, and the toast is--JIM!"
*CHAPTER XXXII.*
*IN WHICH TWO PEOPLE SET OUT UPON A JOURNEY.*
The Long 'Un lay staring at the wall-paper. How often had he counted
that design! Above the window it was repeated seventeen times--over and
over again he counted the pattern to make sure it was repeated seventeen
times--eight each side and one odd one in the middle. And again
underneath and along each wall ran the design in serried and monotonous
rows. He knew every bend and turn of it by heart. It represented a
herb or flower of some kind, the like of which never was seen by mortal
eye in garden, forest, field, or dell.
Almost unceasingly Jim had gazed on this stiff unnatural growth since he
had regained consciousness. He had nothing else to do. He didn't want
to talk, and he wasn't encouraged to. All he could do was lie there and
stare at the wall-paper.
And when he was not counting the wall-paper pattern he would close his
eyes and picture Dora to himself. He would think of her in the neat
coat and skirt she wore to the post-office and back; then simply in the
blouse and skirt she dressed in "for the house"; then in the white frock
she donned when bound for any entertainment in Jefferson's company. On
the whole, Jim most liked to dream of her in the blouse and skirt. He
had seen her thus attired most frequently; such was her costume when he
first set eyes on her in the A B C shop that memorable August afternoon.
And so he lay with his head in white bandages and his back in
plaster-of-Paris--not able to sit up or to turn even; so he lay and
gazed upon the pictures of Dora that floated before his mind's eye.
They had not told him that no marriage had taken place. The matter had
been delicately mentioned to the two great surgeons by Mr Maybury, but
they had both set their faces against the idea of saying anything to Jim
about it, Trefusis declaring that it would excite his patient too much.
Sir Savile concurring, Mr Maybury was obliged to submit, although he
himself could not help thinking that the intelligence would banish that
brooding expression for ever from Jim's eyes. For Dora's father sitting
by the bedside, could see that Jim was suffering from something more
than the physical injuries he had sustained in the Silent House.
Mr Maybury spoke to Koko about it.
"Yes," said Koko, promptly; "I have a good mind to tell Jim, and let the
doctors go hang. They only take a scientific view of his case. _Shall_
I?"
"We must obey orders," said Mr Maybury.
"Well I don't believe it would do him all that harm--and it might do him
an awful lot of good."
"I think with you," said Mr Maybury, "but the doctors probably know
best."
"All the same, doctors don't know everything," grumbled Koko.
Jim did not make a single inquiry on the subject. He presumed Dora was
away honey-mooning under the fair blue skies of the Mediterranean. He
had no idea she was still at No. 9, seriously considering the question
of taking a business situation of some sort, since she could not return
to the post-office. Her father did not encourage the idea, nor did he
oppose it. If Dora would be happier going to a city office every day,
well--she had better go. But, on the other hand, he was quite content
that she should remain at home, now that he was so much better off.
So stood matters when old Doctor Mortimer stole a couple of days from
his wealthy and, in many cases, hypochondriacal patients down at
Threeways, and, running up to town to see Jim, pitched his tent in a
quiet Arundel Street hotel. In order to reach Mount Street he had only
to make his way along the Embankment to Blackfriars Bridge, whence to
Derby Crescent was a smart fifteen minutes' walk. For the Doctor always
walked if it was fine weather. "It keeps a man alive--walking," the old
gentleman told Koko, who lunched with him on the day of his arrival in
town. And, to be sure, it was good to see the Doctor's stalwart form
striding briskly along the crowded pavements, his fine, clean-cut face
ruddy and wholesome showing up refreshingly against the pallid cheeks of
London wayfarers.
"We must get Jim away to the seaside as soon as possible," he said to
Koko, as the latter with some difficulty kept step for step with his big
companion; "what he wants is oxygen--oxygen."
During lunch Koko had given Jim's grandfather a complete history of the
Jefferson episode. He also mentioned that Jim was being kept in
ignorance of the closing incident. So, after a short silence, Dr
Mortimer slackened his pace, and said: "She's a nice girl, then, Mr
Somers?"
"She's as nice a girl as you could meet, Doctor."
"Doesn't spend all her time reading silly novels, I trust?"
"Hardly _all_ her time, Doctor. She reads a certain number, I suppose."
"She's a good girl--I mean, a girl with religion? I don't believe in
your modern young lady who strums waltzes on the piano instead of going
to church!"
"Nor do I," said Koko. "Yes," he added, "she's a good girl. She's been
looking after the poor flower-seller who saved Jim's face from the
Hooligan's boot."
"And so,"--the Doctor slackened his pace still more,--"and so, if we
manage to pull Jim round and make him as strong a man as he ever was,
you think this girl will marry him?"
"I'm sure of it," said Koko.
"And you're sure this is no passing fancy of Jim's? You think he will
want to marry her?"
"I'd stake my life on it," cried Koko.
"Then," said the Doctor, "the very best medicine the boy can have is a
daily visit from Miss--er----"
"Dora," supplied Koko.
"From Miss Dora Maybury," added the Doctor, emphatically. "Very good.
I'll take the responsibility of the matter on my own shoulders. He
shall see her."
Jim was staring at that abominable wall-paper pattern without coming to
any decision about the number of times it was repeated over the window.
For in every leaf he saw Dora's face--and very soon he would see Dora
herself, for he knew now that she hadn't married Jefferson, and that she
was coming to tea with him this very day. It was to be, in fact, quite
a tea-party--a small one, and a very select one. The little Scottish
nurse, who was all-powerful in the sick-room--and had made this fact
very clear to everybody by this time--would act as hostess, and the
guests would be strictly limited to Jim's grandfather, Koko, and Dora.
It would not do, said the nurse, firmly to have too many people to tea,
and the party must only last half an hour at the outside. Another day
she would invite Mr and Mrs Maybury, Miss Bird and Frank--but they must
not come to-day; it would be too many for the little room.
So now Jim was feeling very happy. He and his grandfather had "made it
up" completely. In fact Jim had been astonished by the change that had
come over the old gentleman. True, the abrupt manner of speech
remained, but behind it was a new gentleness, and a new understanding of
Jim.
So they had shaken hands, and the Doctor was now downstairs talking to
Koko and Dora.
[Transcriber's notes:
The last page of this book was missing, however, it can be assumed that
there was a happy ending.
The source book was in poor condition. Its title page mentions sixteen
illustrations, only seven of which were still in the book.]