"It's Shakespeare," she announced, snatching the volume down and
holding it to her flat little bosom. "Presentation!"
"Ada is always a little jealous about letting the presentation
volumes out of her hands," explained Mr. Baxter, from the bed. "That
book was conferred upon me as a small token of esteem by a certain
literary circle in London in which I was interested before I came
here, many years ago. Bring it to me, my dear."
Ada Weeks, with a sidelong and defiant glance in my direction, handed
the great book to the old man. He opened it at random, and began to
read aloud.
"This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in a silver sea,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,--"
He broke off, and smiled.
"You see I do not need glasses," he said, "for such a passage as
that! I almost know it by heart, although I never possessed the
Archdeacon's astonishing facility in that direction. He was
accustomed to commit a passage to memory every day. Put it back,
Ada, dear."
Miss Weeks restored the volume to the case, closed the door, turned
the key, and faced me with the air of a small but determined hen
which has safely shut her chickens into the coop in the very face of
an ill-disposed but inexperienced young fox. I took up my hat.
"Good-bye, Mr. Baxter," I said. "I shall come and see you to-morrow.
Don't let your disciples overtire you."
The old man flushed. "I thank you for that flattering word, sir," he
said.
Halfway down the street I realized that I had forgotten my
stethoscope. Accordingly, I retraced my steps.
I found the front door open. I might have walked in without
ceremony; but, inspired by a very proper fear of Miss Ada Weeks, I
tapped respectfully and waited. There was no response. Presently I
became aware of voices proceeding from the front parlour, the door of
which stood wide open just inside the passage. This is what I heard.
"_Adenitis_, and _Adenoid Growths_--that's the nearest I can find.
Which do you want?"
"I think _Adenoid Growths_, my dear. Read it through once, as usual;
then again line by line."
"All right. Pay attention, mind!" said Miss Weeks sharply, and began:
"_Adenoid Growths of the lym--lymphatic tissues of the upper throat
occur chiefly in children from four to fourteen_. Yes, that's right:
Johnny Caddick is eight. _The child breathes through the
mouth_--Where do they expect him to breathe through? His
ear?--_suffers from Nasal Cat_--cat something; we'll call it
cater--_from Nasal Cater_. I wonder how people can write such words,
let alone read them!"
"To me," said the gentle voice of the old man, "it seems wonderful
that they should be able to do either."
"Listen again," commanded Miss Weeks, oblivious of a resounding knock
from me.
"_--Nasal Cater, and slight deafness; and is stupid and sluggish_--
This book takes off Johnny Caddick to the life, and no mistake! I
wonder what his mother will say--with a _cha-rac-ter-is-tic_--oh,
crumbs!--_facial expression. Cure is effected by a simple operation
of removal_. Does that mean his face? A good job if it does!
That's all. Now I'll learn you it. _Adenoid Growths--_"
"_Adenoid Growths; Adenoid Growths; Adenoid Growths--_"
"_Of the lymphatic tissues--_"
"_Of the lymphatic tissues--_"
I recollected that I had a spare stethoscope at home, and tiptoed
down the steps.