"Temper your zeal with discretion, my friend," I said. "I have found a
rising blister between the shoulder-blades very efficacious in such
cases."
Yet my immaculate assistant, had he only known it, was to go further and
fare worse.
* * * * *
Meanwhile to pass the time I told him the story of old Maxwell Bone.
Peterson was clearly getting restive, and it is not good for young men
of the medical profession to think that they know everything at
five-and-twenty. Maxwell was an aged hedger-and-ditcher, who lived in a
tumble-down cottage at the upper end of Whinnyliggate. Of that parish I
was (and still am) parish doctor, and Maxwell being in receipt of
half-a-crown a week as parochial supplement to his scanty earnings, I
was, _ipso facto_, responsible for Maxwell's state of health, and
compelled in terms of my contract to obey any reasonable summons I might
receive from him.
Upon several occasions I had prescribed for the old ruffian, chiefly for
rheumatism and the various internal pains and weaknesses affected by
ancient paupers. When I was going away on one occasion Maxwell asked me
for an order on the Inspector of Poor for a bottle of brandy "for
outward application only." I refused him promptly, telling him with
truth that he was far better without it.
"Weel, doctor," he said, shaking his head, "dootless ye ken best. But
there's nocht like brandy when thae stammack pains come on me. It micht
save ye a lang journey some cauld snawy nicht. The guard o' the late
train will tak' doon ony message frae the junction, and if I dinna get
the brandy to hae at hand to rub my legs wi' ye micht hae a lang road to
travel! But gin ye let me hae it, doctor, it micht save ye a heap o'
trouble----"
"The old wretch!" cried Peterson. "Of course you did not let him have
it?"
"Peterson," I replied, sententiously, "I decline to answer you. Wait
till you have been a winter here and know what a thirty-mile drive in a
raging snowstorm to the head-end of the parish of Whinnyliggate means.
Then you will not have much doubt whether Maxwell got his brandy or
not."
Now Peterson was really a very excellent fellow, and when he had run his
head against the requisite number of stone walls, and learned to bite
hard on his tongue when tempted to over-hasty speech, he made a capital
assistant. I shall be sorry to lose him when the time comes.
For one thing Nance is fond of him, especially since he fell in love,
and that goes for a great deal in our house. Peterson performed the
latter feat quite suddenly and unexpectedly, as he did everything. It
happened thuswise.
I had had a hard winter, and Nance was needing a change, so, about
Easter, I took her south, for a few weeks in the mild and recuperative
air of the Regent Street bonnet shops. I have noted more than once that
in Nance's case the jewellers' windows along Bond Street possess tonic
qualities, quite unconnected with going inside to buy anything, as also
the dark windows of certain merchant tailors in which the patient can
see her new dress and hat reflected as in a mirror. As for me, I
enjoyed the British Medical Club and the Scientific Museums--which, of
course, was what I came for.
But when we went back home we found that Peterson's daily report of
cases had not conveyed all the truth. Peterson himself was changed. So
far as I could gather, he seemed to have done his work very well and to
have given complete satisfaction. He had even added the names of
several new patients to my list. One of these was that of a somewhat
large proprietor in a neighbouring parish, who was said to be
exceedingly eccentric, but of whom I knew nothing save by the vaguest
report.
"How did you get hold of old Bliss Bulliston?" I asked my assistant, as
I glanced over the list he handed me. We were sitting smoking in the
study while Nance was unpacking upstairs and spreading her new things on
the bed, amid the rapturous sighs and devotionally clasped hands of
Betty Sim, our housemaid.
Peterson turned away towards the mantelpiece for another spill. He
appeared to have a difficulty with his pipe.
"Well, I don't exactly know," he said at last, when the problem was
solved; "it just came about somehow. You know how these things happen."
"They generally happen in our profession by the patient sending for the
physician," I remarked, drily. "I hope you have not been poaching on
anyone else's preserves, Peterson. Did Bulliston send for you?"
Peterson stooped for a coal to light his pipe. It had gone out again.
Perhaps it was the exertion that reddened his handsome face.
"No," he said, slowly, "he did not send for me. I went of my own
accord."