‘Well, sir, Captain B—— had been down with the yellow fever in the West
Indies, and it was such a severe attack that the doctors gave him up
as a bad job, and handed him over to the black nurses to do what they
could for him. They pulled him through, but with such strong doses of
quinine, that before he was convalescent his reason was gone. His was
suicidal mania—about the worst kind we have to do with, for the patient
always has his victim handy if he can only get the means. They had a
rare job to get him over to England; and when he was first put under
the governor’s care, he was about the worst case we had. The governor
studied him carefully, and found that letting him have his own way was
the only thing that did him any good. He was very fond of bathing; and
by-and-by, when he began to mend a little, he was allowed to go to a
river near our place. Of course I always went too, and kept a pretty
sharp eye on him. However, this did not suit him; so one day he goes to
the governor and says: “Dr ——, it is not congenial to my feelings as
a gentleman, always to have that fellow with me when I take my bath;
I would much prefer privacy.” The governor tried to put him off; but
the contradiction had a bad effect on him. Now one of the governor’s
theories is, that at a certain stage of the complaint, if you can
humour patients, they have every chance of recovery; cross them, and
it is gone. “Captain B——,” says he, “I know that if you pass your word
to me, you will keep it like a man of honour; so if you will give me
your word as an officer and gentleman that if I let you go alone you
will return to me in an hour and report yourself, I will let you go.”
Captain B—— gave his word as required, and every day he used to do the
same, always coming to give his word of honour, and returning each
day to report himself, proud of being trusted. It was rather risky
treatment for a suicidal patient, but it succeeded. He’s as well now,
sir, as you or I.
‘There was another case we had, quite different’——
I have settled myself into a listening attitude; but my friend
has suddenly ceased. Looking up, I find my opposite neighbour has
just awakened; and his attendant having perhaps no other topic of
conversation than his professional experiences, which he no doubt
rightly considers an inappropriate subject to discuss before one of his
charges, has relapsed to his perusal of _The Scotsman_, nor do I hear
another word from him till he bids me good-day at York.
‘Grantham, Grantham!’
I have been following the example of the generous lunatic, and taking a
nap which almost deserves the name of a sleep. I awake to the glorious
conviction that I am nearing my journey’s end, and have unconsciously
got over about one hundred miles of loneliness. I have still some hours
before me yet, however, and seem doomed to perform that part of the
journey solus. What shall I do to fill up the time? Happy thought!
Smoke! But this is not a smoking compartment, and by-law No. 7 says
‘that any person smoking in any carriage other than a smoking carriage
shall be liable to a penalty not exceeding forty shillings.’ Bother
by-law No. 7!
I call the guard. The first-class smoking compartment is full. Well,
what’s to be done? A small business transaction between the guard
and myself; beginning with my hand in my pocket and ending with his
in his; and he suggests that as I am all alone and by his favour
likely to be so, I may as well smoke where I am. I light up amidst
evident preparations for a start, and am quietly settling down to
the enjoyment of my cigar when the door hurriedly opens and I have a
companion—a man about my own height and age, altogether not very unlike
me. (I am of that mediocre mould in which nature has formed so many of
my fellow-creatures.)
I am to have a companion after all. Well, so much the better. It will
be somebody to talk to and pass the time. I wonder if he is as taciturn
as my companions at the outset of the journey. Evidently not; he is
recovering his breath after his hurry, and is preparing to address me.
‘I’ll trouble you to put that cigar out, sir! I object to smoke.’
‘But, sir’——
‘Here, guard! Tell this person to put his cigar out at once. This is
not a smoking compartment.’
‘Plenty of room in the next carriage, sir. Would you mind stepping in
there?’
‘Yes; I would mind. By-law No. 7 says, &c. &c.,’ says my companion,
standing blocking up the doorway and arguing with the guard.
‘Very sorry, sir; but you must put out your cigar.’
‘Can’t I go into the next carriage?’
‘Two ladies in there, sir—old ladies!’
‘Have you any empty compartment?’
‘We’re just off, sir,’ says the guard, slamming to the door, and the
next minute we are spinning on our way to Peterborough.
Shall I put out my cigar? I have been alluded to as a ‘person.’ I have
been addressed in a dictatorial manner, which has the very reverse of
a soothing influence on me. I feel ruffled and obstinate. Had I been
asked politely, my Havana had been out of the window in a twinkling.
Shall I put it out or infringe by-law No. 7, and be fined forty
shillings? I _will_ finish my cigar, and abide by the consequences.
My companion is evidently as unaccustomed to opposition as I am to
dictation, and for a few minutes he stares at me dumbfounded, then he
lets fly his own version of King James’s Counterblast against Tobacco.
On my part I preserve an obstinate silence. My companion pulls up the
window on his side; I put up that on mine, which produces a violent fit
of coughing on his part, when down go both windows in a hurry.
We have arrived at Peterborough, and the guard is again called. I have
almost finished my cigar, and I throw the end away. My companion cannot
let the matter rest, however, and when we are started again, he reads
me another lecture, couched in such unacceptable terms that for reply I
light another cigar.
‘Sir, here is my card; and I insist upon knowing your name and address.’
I take his card, open my card-case, put his card in, and return the
case to my pocket without giving him my card in exchange. I finish my
cigar amidst a volley of threats of getting my name and address by
force.
We are at Finsbury Park now, and tickets are being collected. This is
the nearest station to my home, and here I intend to leave the train.
My companion follows me up the platform, and calls the guard to take my
name and address. Being under the scrutiny of the other passengers, who
evidently think I have got into trouble for card-sharping, and having
made up my mind to pay the penalty, I lose no time in giving my card.
At home I am received with open arms, and I am hurried into the
dining-room by my boys to inspect a device over the sideboard for my
especial benefit—‘Welcome’ in blue letters on a white ground. My wife
is full of inquiries after all our friends in Edinburgh, and what sort
of a journey I have had.
Having informed her that individually and collectively all our friends
are as well as could be expected, considering the wintry weather they
have had, and that all were as kind and hospitable as ever, I briefly
tell her of my smoking adventure.
‘And who was your companion?’ asks my wife.
‘How should I know?’
‘Why, you have his card.’
‘To be sure; I quite forgot that,’ say I, producing my card-case. I
search it through carefully, but no card, other than my own, can I find.
‘I know I put it in here. Why, bless me! I must have given it to the
guard instead of my own. How odd!’
I have almost dismissed the adventure from my mind, when a few days
later my wife, in skimming over the paper at the breakfast-table,
breaks out into a merry laugh. What on earth can she find so amusing in
any other than the ‘Agony’ column? which I can see is not the portion
under perusal. It is the police reports, and she hands me the paper,
pointing out the place for my attention.
‘At the —— Police Court, J—— B—— of Verandah House, Crouch Hill,
was summoned by the Great Northern Railway Company for smoking in a
carriage not a smoking carriage, to the annoyance of other passengers.
The guard having proved identity, and the accused’s card, given up by
himself, being put in as corroborative evidence, the magistrate asked
the defendant if he had anything to say in reply. An attempt was made
to prove that the accused was really the complainant, and that he had
given the card produced to the real offender; which the magistrate
characterised as an impudently lame defence, and fined the defendant in
the full penalty of forty shillings.’
‘My dear,’ says my wife.
‘Well, my dear?’ I respond.
‘Verandah House is that pretty place that has just been finished a
little farther up the hill. Don’t you think that you behaved in rather
an unneighbourly manner?’
‘Did our neighbour behave any better?’
‘At all events he has suffered unjustly. This cannot be allowed to
pass. Don’t you think you had better call and apologise?’
‘Well, I’ll think about it.’
On my way home from the station that evening I rang the visitor’s bell
at Verandah House, and was in due course ushered into the presence
of the eccentric proprietor. Our recognition was mutual; and as my
neighbour approached me, I prepared to put myself in a defensive
attitude. His hand, however, was not extended to commit an assault,
and before I could stammer out the elaborate apology I had prepared, I
was forestalled by a hearty shake of the hand and an apology from the
quondam fire-eater!
Under such circumstances it may easily be guessed that a satisfactory
understanding was soon arrived at, and an exchange of invitations to
spend the remainder of the evening in each other’s society ended in my
returning home with my neighbour as my guest. I am very partial to
an after-dinner cigar. Having already committed myself, however, I
determined to practise a little self-denial; but what was my surprise,
when I had carried off my neighbour to my study to shew him a few rare
volumes of which I am almost as proud as I am of my children, to see
my friend produce a cigar-case, and not only offer me the means of
indulging my favourite weakness, but himself preparing to join in it.
‘You may well look surprised,’ said he; ‘but in truth I am an
inveterate smoker. I passed many years of my life in Havana, and these
cigars—which I venture to say you will find remarkably good—are of my
own importing.’
‘But you expressed such contrary opinions the other day.’
‘The fact is, that when in the West Indies I suffered from a severe
attack of yellow fever, and the remedial appliances so affected my mind
that for some time I had to be placed under restraint. Thanks to the
skill of a clever practitioner, I am cured; but my old malady still
shews itself in occasional fits of uncontrollable obstinacy.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ say I; ‘but are you not a military man?’
‘Yes; I was captain in the ——th Regiment.’
Captain B——! My mind reverts to the story I had heard on the morning
of our first meeting. But was our friend as thoroughly cured as his
ex-keeper seemed to imagine? I can’t say, but I know that he is an
excellent neighbour. He treats his misadventure as a capital joke; and
it is likely to be a stock story for the rest of his life how he was
fined forty shillings by the railway company, because another passenger
had infringed by-law No. 7!