"As to his qualifications, there's no doubt. Ranked high at one time as a
London West End specialist. I have seen his name myself in a British
Medical Directory of some years back as principal visiting-surgeon to St.
Stephen's and the Ludgate Hospital for Diseases of the Chest. Has written
books--scientific works that are quoted now. Must have been making money
hand-over-hand when the collapse came. The usual thing--one slip--and a
Police-court Inquiry follows, and down goes the unlucky wretch with the
Crown on top of him, and all the Press pack yelping for soft snaps. True,
the finding of the Jury was 'Not Guilty,' but the fact of there having
been a prosecution was enough to ruin Saxham professionally. Ah, I thought
you must have heard the name!"
For the listener had moved suddenly. He did remember the name of the
distinguished London practitioner who had been discreditably mixed up in
the case of Mrs. Bough, the young, miserable, murdered creature, who might
possibly have been the daughter of Richard Mildare. Tough and cool as his
tried nerves were, he shuddered at the thought, and a sickly heat made the
points of perspiration stand out upon his forehead. But the Mayor, good
man, was prosing on:
"I can't say the facts of the case are very clear in my recollection, but
I have a file of the _Daily Wire_ at home, extending over six years back,
so the Criminal Court proceedings must be reported in it. The woman's
name, I do remember, was Bough. As regards her age, now you ask me"--for
the Colonel had put a quick question--"I fancy she must have been
twenty-two or three. Indeed, I am almost certain that was the age as
stated by the Medical Witness for the Prosecution.... However, I'll go
into the reports and let you know for certain."
"Thank you, Mr. Mayor. And, in case those _Daily Wire_ files are
bomb-proof, possibly it would be better to take the family with you--and
stop until times improve."
"Not bad, not half bad, Colonel! But to tell the truth, I wouldn't miss
what we used to call the shindy, and these boys of yours term the 'scrap'
for a pile of Kruger sovereigns. And--I can shoot better than most men, if
I am in the sere and yellow sixties." The Mayor was slightly ruffled; the
diplomatic touch smoothed him down.
"My money is on you, Mr. Mayor, when it comes to stopping a Boer with a
rifle-bullet at four hundred yards. By the way, I have a little confidence
to repose in you. When you meet--as I am convinced you will meet--Dr.
Saxham at the Hospital or elsewhere, metaphorically clothed and in his
right mind, and in the active discharge of duties which no man, judging by
your own testimony, is better fitted to perform, let him down gently."
The Mayor, conscious of civic dignity and magisterial warnings from the
Bench ignored, swelled obviously.
"My dear sir, you can't let the Dop Doctor down anyhow. He is--just about
as low as a man can get--short of being underground."
"Lend him a hand up--in the first instance--by forgetting that confounded
nickname which I was clumsy enough to blurt out just now. Be oblivious of
what he is, because of what he has been in the past, and will be in the
future. For there is tremendous stuff in the fellow even now--or I am a
bad judge of men."
"Colonel, you're a thundering bad judge of drunkards, from the Bench's
point of view, but you'd be a damned good special pleader for a client in
need of all the excuses that could be trumped up for him."
"We all have something we'd like to have an excuse for, Mr. Mayor." The
keen hawk-eyes held a twinkle in reserve. "There was a man I knew, a
mighty hunter before the Lord--and before the Game Laws." The thin brown
fingers of the muscular hard-palmed hand played with the stem of a
wineglass as the sentences came out, crisp and pointed. "Well, this is the
story of a mistake, and an old _shikari_ of your experience can find even
more excuses for it than I can ... but perhaps I bore you?"
"On the contrary--on the contrary, sir."
The fish had taken the bait, remained to play the quivering captive until
his last swirling struggle brought him within reach of the skilful dip and
lift of the angler's net.
"It was about four years ago, in the Portuguese coast-lands, South of the
Zambesi, where elephants are to be had, and rhino, particularly the
Keitloa variety with the long posterior horn, and a bad habit of charging
the man behind the 600 bore...."
Mr. Mayor's capacious white waistcoat was agitated by a subterranean
chuckle. His double chin shook merrily. "A side shot through the
head--solid bullet--is the best cure for that, Colonel. But you had to
wait in the high swamp-grass and keep the wind of him, and make sure of
your aim."
"Quite so. This man, from the shelter of a rock, waited to make sure of
his aim. The rhino was feeding tsetse as he dozed in the high swamp-grass.
His biggest horn showed, and a bit of his shiny black skin. One forward
lunge of the brute's head--and the hunter could get that side-shot. For
that he waited, patience being, as we know, a virtue to be cultivated by
the successful stalker of big game----"
The Mayor, boiled prawn-pink to the receding boundary-line of his upright
white hair, coughed awkwardly.
"The man waited two hours. Then the unclad and obese native lady, carrying
a long pointed grass-basket on her back, who had squatted down in the high
grass to smoke a pipe and administer maternal refreshment to a shiny black
piccannin of three or four----!"
The Mayor, purple now, burst out:
"Got up and went on! And, if these boys of yours get wind of that story, I
shall be roasted within an inch of my life. Whoever told you? For the love
of Heaven, don't give me away!"
The keen eyes, were dancing now--the big fish had fairly got the gaff.
"I promise, Mr. Mayor, upon the understanding that you don't give away my
man.... It's a compact? Thanks tremendously! And here comes the Manager
to be congratulated upon the haunch. I never tasted better venison, Mr.
Nixey, though, as you say, this is rather far North for koodoo. And the
quail were beyond praise. Waiter, a glass for Mr. Nixey.... Port--and
we're going to ask you to join us in drinking a toast...."
The beautiful, flushed boy rose solemnly, glass in hand. About the long
board, adorned with a fine epergne full of roses, Cape jessamine and
purple bougainvillea, spread with Nixey's best plate and linen, crystal,
and dishes of Staffordshire china piled with golden mandarins, and
loquats, the fruit of October; there was a great uprising of those
phlegmatic, self-contained Britons. Straight as the flames of unblown
torches, they burned about the table. And with a simultaneous movement all
those eyes of varied colours turned to the lean brown face of the Chief,
as the sweet young clarion rang out:
"Gentlemen--the Queen!"
The brimming glasses rose high,--one crystal wave with the crimson of
blood in it. The resonant English and the thinner Colonial voices answered
together with a crash. As of the wave breaking on white cliffs northwards,
and a great surge of love and loyalty went out from all those hearts to
England, throbbing to the steps of the Throne where She sat, bowed with
great griefs and great joys and great triumphs and glories, and
white-haired with the full burden of her venerable years.
"The Queen!"