Chapter V: Part 5

The red-haired one moved that they should look Jim up. The motion being agreed upon, the party started off in twos and threes, the Welshman previously directing that Jim was not to be apprised of their visit until all had assembled outside Taplow's surgery.

It was not a very far cry to Mount Street. Arrived there, and perceiving a light in the surgery window, the Welshman turned the handle of the street door and walked in.

"Jim's out," he announced, appearing on the threshold a few moments later; "come on in."

They went in, and proceeded, while waiting for Jim, to amuse themselves in a naive manner that was very upsetting to any compartment they chanced to favour with their attentions. In point of fact, they turned the surgery upside down, and were about to proceed with the still more disconcerting operation of putting it straight again, when a bearded gentleman appeared in the doorway and stared aghast at the confusion they had wrought.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, furiously.

"Waiting for Jim," said the Welshman.

"What do you mean? Who are you?"

"Go away," said Mr Deadwood, playfully discharging the contents of a four-ounce syringe at the newcomer; "we don't want you to play with us!"

"Play with you! I'll have the police to you! I'll teach you to play here!" thundered the bearded man, turning on his heel and hastening down the street.

Jim's successor--for the bearded man was no less a personage--soon returned well backed up by several representatives of the law.

"Now, then, what's all this foolery? Clear out of here at once!" observed one of the latter, a stout sergeant.

The Welshman advanced. "We have come to see Dr Mortimer. You can't turn us out of here unless he wishes us to be turned out."

"Get out--all of you!" was the sergeant's abrupt rejoinder.

"Before we get out," said Mr Deadwood, "tell us what right this hairy-faced fellow has here, my excellent but somewhat overfed friend!"

"You'll find out what right he has here when you appear before the beak to-morrow!" spluttered the sergeant.

"Corpulent people should avoid excitement," put in Mr Deadwood.

The sergeant glared at him and went on: "This here surgery is Dr Taplow's, and this gentleman is in charge of it. You've come and broke up the wrong place, and so we must take you to the station--that is to say, if this gentleman wishes to charge you."

"Certainly," said the bearded man; "they have damaged the place, and must pay for it."

The students looked ruefully at each other.

"We thought this was Dr Mortimer's surgery," one of them said.

"Dr Mortimer's is farther down the street," said the sergeant, "so you've made a big mistake in playin' the fool here, and giving me cheek. You've got to come to the station, every man jack of you, and the quieter you come the better it will be for you in the morning."

Now the Welshman--acknowledged leader of the band--spoke up.

"Look here, bobby," he said, "we'll go to the station, but we're not going to be marched off like pickpockets. If you keep to the left-hand pavement, we'll keep to the right, and I'll give you my word of honour for the lot that we won't cut."

The Welshman had a good pair of eyes, and the stout sergeant was an old hand at summing up character at short notice. He conferred briefly with his men.

"Very well," he said, at length, "I'll agree to that. First give me your name and address, though."

The Welshman handed him his card. The sergeant made a sign, and the police withdrew. Then the Welshman formed his men up in single file, gave the word to "March!" and led them in good order out of the surgery and down Mount Street, keeping them to the edge of the right-hand pavement. The sergeant, true to his compact, kept his men to the left-hand pavement, the bearded man walking sulkily by his side.

It is now necessary to return to Jim and his movements.

This had been a very hard day with the Long 'Un, who had been out and about constantly, for there was much sickness in the district. Some of Jim's frequent emergings were witnessed by young Isaac Harris, who, as often as his duties in the shop permitted it, took up a position on his step and watched the surgery door.

For, ever since Jim, before Rebecca Nathan's very eyes, had expelled Isaac from his surgery in the manner recently described, Isaac had been thirsting for revenge. And to-day an excellent idea had entered his head. The chief of the Hooligans still looked in at the Harris emporium for odd meals, and Isaac fancied that this nice gentleman would serve as a convenient instrument in the matter of harming Dr Mortimer. Isaac knew that the Hooligans bore Jim plenty of ill-will, and would be only too pleased to get an opportunity to wreak their spite against him. And it struck Isaac that their most favourable opportunity would occur at night-time, when Jim was attending a patient in one of the narrow courts in which the locality abounded.

The Hooligan leader had been in that afternoon, and Isaac had lost no time in sounding him about Jim. The Hooligan's sentiments and hopes were expressed in brief but blasphemous terms.

Now, Isaac knew what sort of metal Jim was composed of, and did not believe in his heart of hearts that the Hooligans would ever succeed in--as they elegantly put it--"outing" him; but he fancied they might be able to hustle him and do him some serious harm, and that, Isaac decided, would just suit _his_ book. He did not want them to murder Jim, only hurt him.

That evening the Hooligan came in again and consumed a large meal which heartened him up considerably, and filled him with a savage desire to turn his hand against some of his fellow-beings. Kicking a policeman's skull in would have formed a most delectable dessert to his repast.

As he was leaving the shop in his usual truculent manner, he found Isaac lounging on the step.

"Good evening, sir," said Isaac, smoothly.

"Evening, guv'nor."

Isaac gazed at the other craftily. "Our dear doctor has been busy to-day," he murmured.

The Hooligan spat on the pavement.

"'E's off again--just gone to Pine Court," added Isaac, carelessly.

An evil light glittered in the Hooligan's pig eyes. "Pine Court? 'Ow d'yer know?"

"Saw a kid from the court fetch him."

Half a dozen friends of the Hooligan's were standing idly about near a public-house close by. The Hooligan's glance fell on them. There was a shady little tavern not much farther away, where half a dozen more would certainly be "on call."

The Hooligan lit his short clay pipe, nodded to Isaac, and strolled away. Isaac saw the man approach his pals and enter into conversation with them. Then Isaac chuckled contentedly and went back to his work.

The case Jim had been called to was a serious one, and he was detained over an hour in the wretched room the Pine Court urchin had conducted him to. He drew a deep breath of relief when he at length quitted the loathsome sleeping-den and walked down the dirty stairs into the comparatively fresh air of the court below.

He was fumbling for his pipe, thinking to enjoy a smoke on his way back to the surgery, when a sight met his eyes which, for a moment, made his heart beat quickly. The narrow entrance to the court--whose opposite end was a cul de sac--was completely blocked up by a gang of louts. A glance showed him that their attitude was hostile to himself, and another quick glance round and about made manifest the disturbing and uncomfortable fact that he was absolutely cornered.

He knew, however, that it would be fatal to show the slightest fear or hesitation. They meant mischief, and although, to the best of his reckoning, they were twelve to his one, he saw he would have to go for the lot.

He walked quickly and resolutely forward. As he came up to the gang, the foremost of its members retired a few steps, for Jim's prowess was well known to them. All but one--a stalwart ruffian who stood his ground and leered up impudently at the young doctor.

"We've got yer this time," he said, exultingly.

For reply, Jim hit him, and as the man dropped to the ground with a howl of pain, a knife fell from his nerveless hand.

Instantly the rest threw themselves upon Jim. A blow from a knobbed stick crushed his hat in, and a belt-buckle, whizzing past his ear, cut right through his coat and nipped his shoulder. Simultaneously he was venomously kicked and struck on the body and legs. Still, no blow got really home, and Jim, warming to the fight, left a bruise every time either of his fists shot out. Several belts came swinging at his face; he dodged them, then seized one, wrenched it out of its owner's hands, and lashed back at them with the cruel buckle.

He was nearer the entrance of the court now, and as he fought, edged still farther that way. Perceiving his design, the Hooligans massed themselves between their single opponent and the outlet, and such were their numbers that Jim had to retire towards the blind wall at the end of the court.

Step by step Jim was being forced back. If he were to make a rush into any of the houses he would be trapped still more surely. He was safer in the open. But when he reached the wall, and could retire no farther, the end must come, for the wall was unscalable, and he could not break his way through this pack of human wolves.

Still, Jim was lashing out as furiously as ever with the belt, and the curses of the Hooligans gave proof of the execution the heavy buckle wrought amongst them. His hat was off, his face was bleeding, his breath was coming in short, sharp gasps; they were all round him, hemming him in, and in a few seconds he must have been down, when of a sudden there was a great, boisterous cry, and Jim knew that help had come.

"_Matt's! Matt's to the rescue! Hold up, Jim! Matts!_"

This was the call as the sixteen men from Matt's, headed by the Welshman and Deadwood, came streaming into the court.

Unseen by the Hooligans, the small boy who had fetched Jim to his mother, witnessing Jim's perilous situation, had crept out of the court, and, encountering the students on their march down Mount Street, had, in a few breathless words, informed them of the "doctor's" plight. If it had been any other doctor they would have flown to the rescue, but they guessed it was Jim, and, directed by the urchin, made a frantic rush for Pine Court.

The Hooligans left Jim to face the new danger. The students and the Mount Street ruffians met with a crash, and there was a short, sharp _melee_.

But it was quite short. The Hooligans--under-sized wretches as many of them were--had no chance against the students, most of whom were athletes, and a few, like Deadwood, skilled fighters.

Jim's assailants were knocked down in all directions, and thrashed with their own belts. When they got up it was to make a dash for the entrance of the court, where they ran into the arms of the stout sergeant and his merrie men. Each policeman held tight to a Hooligan, and the students, pursuing hotly, captured others, but several got away.

Among the captured was the chief of the gang.

"This 'll mean five years for you, Jack Smith," said the stout sergeant, "and serve you right, you dirty scoundrel!"

Mr Smith's reply need not be recorded.

But among those who remained at large was the big brute Jim had felled to the ground. This man, in falling, had sustained a severe scalp wound, and had crept out of the fight and up a dark staircase, where he lay until the police disappeared, writhing with pain and vowing eternal vengeance on Jim Mortimer.

*CHAPTER XX.*

*AFTER THE PLAY.*

"Dear old man!" said the red-haired student, wringing Jim's hand. "I'm so glad we got here in time!"

The red-haired one then briefly recapitulated the events of the evening, and just as he concluded his story the stout sergeant touched him on the shoulder.

"My men have taken those rascals off to the station, sir," he said. "It's a good haul, and we couldn't have got 'em if you gentlemen hadn't helped. That being the case, I don't feel like taking you to the station as well. Couldn't you arrange matters, sir, with the gentleman at Dr Taplow's surgery?"

"Certainly, sergeant," said the red-haired one, who promptly approached the bearded man, Mr Deadwood following in his wake.

"I say, you know, sir," said the red-haired one to the bearded man, "if we've done any damage we shall be glad to make it good, don't you know. You don't wish to take further proceedings, do you?"

"It was a most unwarrantable intrusion," rejoined the bearded man, stiffly.

"I admit it," said the red-haired student.

"And we're sorry," added Mr Deadwood, "--beastly, awfully sorry."

Mr Deadwood accompanied this statement with a glance which was intended to indicate that if he (the bearded man) didn't accept the red-haired one's proposal, he (the bearded man) would get a jolly good punch in the nose from him (Mr Deadwood).

The bearded man evidently interpreted the glance thus, for he replied: "Very well, I will see what damage has been done, and send you the bill."

"Right O!" said the red-haired one. "My name's Evans Evans, of Matt's."

"Matt's!" cried the bearded man. "Why didn't you tell me that before? I'm a Matt's man!"

"You didn't look like a Matt's man, you see," explained Mr Deadwood in his nice way.

"But I am a Matt's man," said he of the beard, "so I won't send in any account."

"Thanks. But if we've done any serious damage, we'll pay for it. That's only fair," responded the Welshman.

Jim had joined the group. "Well," he said, "I hope you'll all come along to my place now and have some of the old poison."

"We will," said Mr Deadwood, with emphasis. "Come on, old cock," he added, linking his arm in the bearded man's. "I believe you're not a bad sort, in spite of your looks."

The bearded man wisely submitted to being led off in this way, and the rest followed, Jim bringing up the rear with the Welshman. The stout sergeant's friendliness had not been forgotten, for he arrived at the police-station the wealthier by half-a-sovereign.

It was midnight before the students left Jim's surgery, and by that time Jim and the bearded man were good friends, the latter having proved to be by no means a "bad sort." Mr Deadwood insisted on making a note of the bearded man's natal day, as he said he would like to send him a birthday present. In parting, Mr Deadwood shook the bearded man warmly by the hand several times, wished him a merry, merry Christmas, and added that after all it was better to be healthy than handsome, and that he saw no reason why he (the bearded man) should not, therefore, be perfectly contented.

After this Mr Deadwood climbed into a cab and fell fast asleep. Edmund Mildmay got in after him, and said it would be all right, he would "see Deady home--merry Christmas everybody!" So they drove off amid the wild hallooing of their fellow-students, who then chartered other cabs, and drove off too, leaving Jim and the bearded man saying very nice things to each other on the pavement. And so the evening ended in seasonable fashion.

Christmas came on apace. Down at Threeways, Christmas was always kept jovially, and Jim had been much in request everywhere. There were skating and hockey, theatricals and dancing, and Jim had been the central figure of all such activities and recreations. But, alas! Threeways was now forbidden land to him.

Late in the afternoon of Christmas Eve, Jim sat by his surgery fire smoking a solitary pipe. Paying Koko the twenty-five pounds had left him with very light pockets, but he had bought a few presents. No. 9 was now his home, so to speak, and he did not like to let Christmas pass without recognising the fact in some way. So, earlier in the afternoon, he had journeyed to Regent Street and wandered vaguely round a huge shop which seemed to contain nothing else but what one would like to buy. While waiting his turn, Mortimer found amusement in watching the crowd of purchasers. Here was a boy hungrily eying a huge model yacht or torpedo boat; there a girl, wistfully calculating whether she could afford to give the price marked on the purse, or the letter-case, or the inkstand she knew mother would _love_! Here were two sisters, holding a whispered consultation; there a portly uncle, blandly making a big hole in a ten-pound note for little nephews and nieces.

Christmas has not gone from us, although some soured folk say that this sweet and holy season is not what it was. Christmas has certainly conformed itself to the times, like everything else, but Christmas will always be with us. Though there be no snow on the ground, no ice upon the ponds, yet it will always be Christmas in our hearts.

Jim was at length brought to bay by a good-looking dark girl in a neat black dress. There was a touch of Dora about her, and as she smiled in a friendly way upon the very tall customer, Jim told her just exactly what he wanted, and the dark girl's suggestions were so practical and tasteful that his presents subsequently proved great successes. For that voluble dame, Mrs Maybury, and her elder step-daughter, Miss H. R. Maybury, he bought neat little velvet handbags of the kind ladies carry when they take walks abroad; for Frank he got a huge knife, containing, among other wonders, an implement for extracting stones from horses' hoofs--no boy's knife, indeed, seems complete without this strange appendage, which is never by any chance used for the humane purpose it is intended for. For Dora, Jim bought a little writing-case made of light brown leather. Upon the corner he had an initial "D" affixed, in silver. This addition was expeditiously made while he waited. Jim knew that he must be very discreet in the kind of present he gave to Dora, so he chose something that looked quite simple, though, as a matter of fact, the little writing-case cost him more than the other three presents put together. The dark girl, with her quick instinct, seemed to read in Jim's eyes that this was a _very_ special present, for Jim looked at eleven other writing-cases before he fixed on the brown one.

The presents were packed up at last, and Jim told the dark girl he was very much obliged to her, and that he was afraid he had given her a great deal of trouble. But the dark girl said that he hadn't given the slightest trouble, and hoped he would come there for his presents next Christmas, which Jim promised faithfully to do.

When he got back to his surgery he made up some medicine, and then sat down by the fire to smoke. And while he smoked he wondered whether his grandfather was thinking of him, and whether they would ever be re-united. Judging from his grandfather's stern silence, it seemed that he and the dear old home at Threeways were destined to be strangers for evermore.

Now it happened that the enterprising son of a Mount Street tradesman had taken a snapshot of Jim one sunny November afternoon, as the Long 'Un was standing by his surgery door. The snapshot showed a good deal of the building as well as its occupier, and made a good picture. The youth had subsequently given Jim a mounted copy of the photo.

"I'll send the old man a Christmas card," said Jim, and straightway took the photo off his mantelpiece and wrote upon its back: "_The present quarters of your affectionate grandson, Jim. Wishing you a Happy Christmas._"

He put his Mount Street address under this message, and on his way to No. 9, posted the photo to his grandfather.

Christmas Day dawned bright and frosty, and passed off far more pleasantly than Jim had anticipated. Those for whom Jim had bought presents were genuinely surprised and pleased by Jim's thoughtfulness. Mrs Maybury scrutinised Dora's face keenly as the girl opened the packet addressed to her in Jim's handwriting. But Dora simply thanked Jim as her sister had thanked him. She did not appear at all self-conscious, and so Mrs Maybury, who had begun of late to regard Jim and Dora with some suspicion, felt distinctly puzzled.

Frank was delighted with the knife, and for several days kept a sharp look-out for a limping horse that might require a stone removed from its hoof. But, as he afterwards told Jim, he didn't have any luck--probably because "nearly all the streets were made of beastly wood."

By the first post on Christmas morning there arrived for Dora a magnificent diamond brooch--Mr Jefferson's gift. At the same time Mr Jefferson reminded her that he would be calling about seven o'clock on Boxing Night to take her to the pantomime at Drury Lane.

At breakfast on Boxing Day Jim produced some yellow tickets. "There's a big show on for children in the Mount Street Church Room to-night," he said, "and I'm going to sing. Anyone care to come? It's a free show."

Mr Maybury quietly said that he would like a ticket, but nobody else accepted Jim's offer, so, as he had several tickets at his disposal, Jim gave one to Mary, and, later on, one to the old woman who looked after his surgery.

Mr Cleave and Miss Bird, it should be mentioned, were spending Christmas with relations--a fact which filled Jim with a feeling of devout thankfulness.

There was a very early dinner at No. 9 that evening, as Mrs Maybury, Miss "H.R.," and Frank were going to the pantomime at the Surrey Theatre. Punctually at seven, Mr Jefferson arrived and bore Dora, radiant and blushing, off to Drury Lane. The others went out about the same time, Mary trotting off to the Church Room in advance of Mr Maybury and Jim in order to secure a good seat.

So No. 9 remained locked up and tenantless until a quarter past eleven, when Mr Maybury arrived home.

The others trailed in half an hour later, Frank bursting with laughter over the antics and wheezes of the principal low comedian. Between twelve and one Dora and Mr Jefferson came.

Dora, strangely silent, went to her room at once. Mr Jefferson, on the other hand, seemed much elated, and chatted gaily for some minutes before he took his departure.

Dora had not been in her room long before there came a little tap at her door, followed by the entrance of Mary.

"Oh, Miss, I'm sure you must be tired," said Mary; "may I help you?"

"If you like, Mary; yes, I am very tired."

Dora sighed as she sat down in front of her glass. Mary hastened to comb and brush her young mistress's hair. It was like old times to Dora, having her hair brushed by a maid--the old times when Mr Maybury was wealthy and held his head high in the commercial world. But now, alas! he was only a clerk in the office of the man who had taken Dora to the theatre that night! Her diamonds came from the man who paid her father a weekly wage!

"Oh, Miss, wasn't the pantomime _lovely_?"

"Yes, it was very nice," replied Dora, absent-mindedly. Then, rousing herself a little, she said: "And did you enjoy the concert, Mary?"

"Oh, Miss Dora, it was grand! And so was the doctor, Miss!"

"Did he sing well?"

"_Sing_! I should think he did! You should 'ave 'eard 'em larf! They wouldn't let 'im leave off. They clapped and 'oorayed every time--them children--till I thought they'd never stop. Funny ain't the word. I very nearly split in 'arf, Miss! There was five hundred children, and 'eaps of other folk, and the vicar and 'is curates, and their lady friends--and they larfed as much as the children did, Miss. And right at the end 'e sang a little song--to finish with--which was funny at first, and then made you feel you'd like to cry. And the kiddies kept quite quiet in that part--they seemed to understand, Miss. And when he'd done, Miss, he bowed to all the children just as if they were lords and ladies, and it was real pretty to see the little girls kiss their hands to 'im, and the doctor kiss his hand back to them! Everybody enjoyed it, and them kids went 'ome as 'appy as if they'd each found a shillin'."

Mary dilated on the concert at great length, but she went off at last, and Dora was still sitting thoughtfully before the glass when there came yet another knock at her door.

She rose from her chair and went to see who it was. "May I come in a moment, dear?"

It was Mr Maybury. "I wanted to hear how you enjoyed the pantomime."

For reply, Dora flung her arms round her father's neck and burst into tears.

"Why, Dora, dear--what is the matter?"

But Dora still sobbed upon his shoulder.

"Is it anything to do with Mr Jefferson, dearest?"

"Yes," said Dora.

"You have not quarrelled, I hope?"

Dora lifted her head and looked bravely into her father's eyes.

"No, we haven't quarrelled, father dear. On the way home he asked me to marry him within a month from now."

"And you said?"

"And I promised that I would, father."

*CHAPTER XXI.*

*A MATTER OF WAGES.*

After this declaration, Dora's father, knowing something of the nature of women, expected a fresh outburst of tears. But none came. Dora turned towards her glass, and a moment later wheeled round with a smile upon her face.

"And so, you see, dear," she said, "you must make the most of me, while you have me. It does seem a short time, doesn't it--a month--such a very little time for us to be together!"

Mr Maybury took the girl's soft hand in his and looked thoughtfully into her face. For this news came as a sudden shock to him. He had not anticipated parting with her for at least a twelve-month--or perhaps more--from the day of her betrothal to Harold Jefferson.

Dora and he had been very firm friends from the earliest days, and since his commercial downfall this bond between the two had increased tenfold. For, when Mr Maybury was rich, Dora had been a queen-in-little, very imperious, exacting, impetuous, and possibly somewhat selfish. But ever she had been her father's most treasured possession, and he had loved to see her in dainty dresses, and surrounded by those pretty things which his wealth had enabled him to buy for her in abundance. So devoted was he to the child, indeed, that when he married for the second time, his new wife had exhibited no little jealousy on Dora's account.

Then came the crash--when Dora was a schoolgirl--and then, when the elder Miss Maybury and Mrs Maybury uttered lamentations for their altered estate, and even went so far as to upbraid Mr Maybury for his short-sighted business policy, Dora's arms closed about his neck, her lips sought his haggard face, and Dora's voice, with words of love and affection, acted like healing balm upon his sore heart.

"Yes," he said at length, "it does seem a little time--a month!"

He sighed--and Dora's eyes filled with tears she would not let fall, so that she saw him as through a mist, dimly.

"Oh, father," she said, laying her head upon his shoulder, "it does seem dreadful to have to leave you, but I shall come to see you very often--very, _very_ often!"

"Yes, yes, dear," he said, "you will come and see me. I must not be selfish. I cannot expect to keep you by my side all my life. It is the same with most fathers. Their sons seek wives, their daughters are taken from them, and they are left alone."

"Poor father," said Dora, gently, as she kissed him.

Mr Maybury sat down, and Dora placed herself on his knees, as had been her custom from babyhood, with one round arm encircling his neck.

In those early days Dora may have sadly plagued her nurse or governess, but with her father she had always been docile, serving him with a demure obedience that had been very sweet to see. As a child, her storms of tears would be replaced of a sudden by sunny smiles when she heard his voice or noticed his approaching form. Their mutual love was a talisman which chased away her frowns and pouts, and changed her, upon his entrance, into a totally different creature, her nurse or governess wondering greatly the while. And so, though of a naturally wilful disposition, Dora would often strive to conquer the rebellious mood when she felt it coming upon her, simply that she might please her father.

Tender recollections had both now of the strolls they used to take through the fields which surrounded their old home, which stood far enough outside Manchester to be free from the smoke of the factories. Mr Maybury revelled in the peace of the meadowland after the din of the city in whose midst he earned his money, and Dora, though she loved to romp with other girls, and to go to theatres and concerts and parties, preferred these quiet walks to anything else--the walks which came to an end when she was just merging into womanhood. And now they lived in a poor crescent, and one had to go by train to reach woods and green fields. On Sunday evenings now the clang of many bells came to their ears above the ceaseless hum of toiling omnibuses and trams, and the badinage of Londoners promenading--so sadly different was it all to the excursions of olden times, her little hand in his big one, the grave father's voice mingling with her childish tones.

Picture after picture presented itself to their minds in phantasmal fashion. There was the cool old church where they sat side by side in a roomy, ancient pew, Dora nestling close to her father and watching the preacher with wondering big eyes. Then there was the pleasant after-service talk with their neighbours, and finally the walk home along the leafy lanes, with Nature's winged choristers chanting songs of the holy day, and all sorts of tiny hedge-people buzzing and laughing in the sunshine.

"Father, you look so sad!" said Dora. "But there is still a month, and we must make the most of that--you and I! We will go to the theatre together--so as to be quite by ourselves--and sit in the pit and enjoy ourselves tremendously. It will be such a change, after stalls and boxes! I don't suppose I shall ever sit in the pit after I am married."

It seemed to Mr Maybury that her voice lost its gay ring as she uttered these concluding words, but it never occurred to him to ask her whether she was quite sure that she loved the man she was going to marry. He took it for granted that she did.

They chatted on together until a clock near at hand tolled out "One." Then Mr Maybury said it was time they both went to bed.

He kissed her tenderly on the forehead, and then she held the light so that he might see his way down to the next landing. "Good-night, dear!" she said; and he, glancing upwards, thought he had never beheld so fair a picture as she made standing there in the dark doorway.

And thus they parted--he to rest, she to think. For, long after the house was hushed in slumber, Dora paced up and down her little bedroom. Often she paused in front of her glass and communed with the white-faced reflection that gazed back at her.

On their way home from the theatre, Harold Jefferson had told her that he intended to use all his influence to procure her father a more remunerative position at the office.

"And then," said Dora, at length, to the face in the glass, "father will be comfortably off all his life. That is everything!"

With a little shiver she blew out her candle and crept into bed. For long she lay sleepless, but presently a compassionate angel, in the course of her flight over the Dark City, entered the little room, and, touching the girl's eyelids with her cool finger-tips, led her away to Dreamland.

Harold Jefferson was as good as his word, for, shortly before lunch time on the following day, Mr Maybury was informed that the head of the firm wished to see him in his private room. Mr Maybury at once obeyed the summons, concluding that it must have something to do with his daughter's engagement to Harold. Possibly the elder Jefferson objected to the match, and a curious feeling of elation took possession of Mr Maybury as it occurred to him that this might be the case.

Mr Jefferson was a stout, rather apoplectic-looking man of some sixty years--quite unlike his son in appearance. There was nothing of the keen, lean stockbroker about him; indeed, his ponderous manner and measured speech reminded one of an old-fashioned type of merchant that is now almost extinct.

"Ha! sit down, Mr Maybury. A pleasant change after the muggy weather we have been experiencing lately! Ahem! yes, I wanted to see you on a little matter--quite a little matter--ahem! You have been with us now----"

"Three years, sir," said the other quietly.

"Three years? So long! Well, well--time flies, time flies. But to business. I--er--I have--er--asked my manager, Mr Jacobs, to recommend such persons in--er--in my employ as he considers deserving of an increase in salary. The new year is close at hand, and it appears to me an--er--an appropriate season for such--er--recommendations. Your name, Mr Maybury, comes first on the list. I am assured that you are most punctilious in--er--in the discharge of your duties, and that you are a man to be implicitly trusted in all respects. I gather, in short, that you are in all respects a most satisfactory servant of the--er--firm. I have decided, therefore, to make a substantial addition to your present salary. You are now paid--er--you receive----"

"One hundred and fifty pounds a year, sir."

"One hundred and fifty? Well, well,--that is hardly adequate remuneration for a man of your integrity and ability. A good man is--er--is worth good pay. I shall have much pleasure, therefore, Mr Maybury, in raising your salary to--er--three hundred pounds a year."

_Three hundred a year_! The amount had a refreshing, satisfying sound! It would mean a very different state of things at No. 9, would three hundred a year.

"I am deeply grateful to you, sir----" began Mr Maybury.

"Don't mention it. You deserve it. Your increase of salary will commence on New Year's Day. And now, Mr Maybury, we will turn to another topic. There has for some time been a little affair--a little love-making--between two young people we both know very well. I have known, of course, that my son Harold was paying attentions to your daughter; he has spoken of her--in fact, he has shown me her photograph. She is, if I may say so, a very charming young lady, and I hope to have the--er--pleasure of making her acquaintance quite shortly. In fact, I trust that Mrs Maybury and yourself will bring Miss--er--Flora----"

"Dora," corrected Mr Maybury, with a slight smile.

"_Dora_! Pardon my mistake! Yes, I trust you will all three come and dine with Harold and myself at an early date. I--er--I had no idea that Harold contemplated matrimony--ahem!--quite so soon, but I shall be glad to see him settle down, as he has hitherto been a little restless--a little--ahem!--a little irregular in his habits. So I am not displeased at this--er--this approaching union."

"I am glad to hear that it meets with your approval, sir."

Mr Jefferson drummed thoughtfully on the table with his fingers. For a long time he had been dissatisfied with his son's conduct, and the news of the latter's matrimonial intentions had come as an immense relief to the worried parent.

"I do not think I need keep you any longer, Mr Maybury," said the stockbroker, at length; "er--we shall no doubt see a little more of each other in--er--in future."

Mr Maybury rose from his chair with a curiously determined look on his face. He had fully made up his mind on a certain matter that had dawned upon him during the latter part of this short interview.

"I wish to ask you one question, sir," he said, "before I definitely accept your proffered increase of salary."

"Certainly, certainly," said the other. "What is it?"

"I wish to ask you, as man to man, and not as servant to employer, whether your son's forthcoming marriage with my daughter has anything to do with your proposed doubling of my salary?"

The stockbroker frowned. "That, Mr Maybury," he replied, "is entirely my business. It is sufficient for you to know that I have decided to enlarge your stipend by the amount I have named."

"I wish you to answer my question, sir," said Mr Maybury, firmly.

"And I decline to answer it," returned the other, his previously urbane manner vanishing as he spoke.

"Then, sir, I shall take it that I am correct in my assumption--that you are making this increase solely because you wish me to occupy a better position in the world than my present salary enables me to hold."

"And supposing it _were_ that?" demanded the stockbroker, roughly. "Do you mean to say you will refuse such an offer?"

"I do, sir. I absolutely decline this increase of salary. I will take what I earn, and not a penny more."

So saying, with a slight bow, Mr Maybury turned on his heel and left the room.

The stockbroker sat for some time in a state of amazement. At length he spoke.

"I could not have imagined--I would not have believed--that the City of London contained such a fool. Here is a man, as poor as a rat, actually throwing away a hundred and fifty a year! He must be mad!"

Mr Maybury breathed not a word at home of his interview with Mr Jefferson the elder. As for Harold, when he was informed by his father of the result of the conversation, he too marvelled greatly.

But he did not think it necessary to mention the upshot of the interview to Dora.

*CHAPTER XXII.*

*THE WARNING.*

On the same morning, at breakfast, Miss H. R. Maybury informed Jim that her sister was to be married to Harold Jefferson at the end of January.

Miss Maybury kept a careful watch on Jim's face while she imparted this piece of news, for she, like her stepmother, had for some time suspected the young doctor of not being entirely indifferent to Dora. Of the latter's attitude towards Dr Mortimer Miss H. R. Maybury was in a state of aggravating doubt. She had a shrewd idea that Dora, on her part, was not insensible to such charms as Jim might possess, but she was not sure about it. She had quite unsuccessfully endeavoured to "draw" Dora on the subject, but Dora had listened to H. R.'s references to Jim with a blank countenance that told no tales and gave nothing away.

On this occasion Jim was taken quite by surprise, and his face yielded up his secret. H. R., warily observing his expression, saw that she had been correct in her surmise. Dr Mortimer _was_ in love with her sister!

"Indeed!" said Jim confusedly. "Rather soon, isn't it?"

"Yes, it has been a very short engagement," returned H. R.--"in fact, I don't think myself that Dora ought to be married until she's at least twenty--she is so _very_ young for her age! What do you think?"

"It has never struck me that she was," replied Jim, beginning to regain his self-possession.

"She is still a child in her thoughts," Miss Maybury declared.

Jim, framing his opinion on the events of a certain walk Dora and he had taken in the Crescent one night, thought otherwise, but thought it quite to himself.

"However," continued Miss Maybury, "it appears that Mr Jefferson has been advised by Dr Taplow to go abroad for a few months--until the worst of the winter is over."

"He looks delicate," said Jim, grimly.

"Yes, I'm afraid his chest is not too strong. Well, as I was saying, he has got to go abroad, and, as he can't bear to leave Dora all that time, he thinks that the best plan will be for them to get married at once."

Jim wondered whether Mr Jefferson's delicate chest was his sole reason for hurrying on the marriage.

"And so now," concluded Miss Maybury, "it will be all bustle and milliners until the important day, and I am afraid you poor men will be made rather uncomfortable."

"Oh, you mustn't mind us," said Jim, good-humouredly; "we can have our meals on the stairs, if you like."

And so, with a laugh, Jim got on to his long legs and departed to his surgery, leaving Miss Maybury wondering more than ever whether Dora had given him any secret encouragement.

Jim whistled in a melancholy, stolid way as he walked along Blackfriars Road to his work. So Dora Maybury was to be married in a month. One month! And that would be the end of the little romance which had started in a tea-shop at mid-summer, when he, Jim, first saw a face which had haunted him ever since.

Dora was to be married in a month's time, and the face would vanish, and he didn't suppose he would ever care about another girl all his life long.

"For if I live to a hundred," thought Jim, still staunch to his lady-love, "I shall never meet such an angel again. Henceforth, J. Mortimer, you've got to settle down to a bachelor existence. It's Dora or nobody, and, as it can't be Dora, it must be nobody."

It was lucky for Jim that he found heaps of work awaiting him in the shape of a long queue of humble patients, for he had no time to brood over his sorrows. He had to anoint unsavoury sores and bind up ugly wounds; he had to listen to long tales of neuralgias, sleepless nights, cramps, and the _olla podrida_ of small woes to which our human flesh is heir--and heiress. It was chiefly heiress, as we have before remarked, at the Mount Street surgery. And Jim, of course, had to listen very carefully, for sometimes he found himself face to face with a malignant disease--something that called for prompt and accurate diagnosis. Love and lovers' thoughts must be driven into the background when a doctor finds himself gazing on a waxen-faced morsel of humanity which, unbeknown to its mother, has the seeds of diphtheria apparent in its wee throat--and such cases were presented to Jim in plenty. The dire complaints which came into Jim's surgery seemed to be shed upon him by a beneficent Providence, for they brought out the man and the surgeon, and bade the love-sick swain forget his own woes in the bodily ills of his fellow-creatures.

After the visiting patients had been dealt with, Jim went out upon his rounds. He returned to his surgery about tea-time, and had not been long back when the Chinaman adorning the mantelpiece was precipitated on to his face, and a sound of shuffling steps proceeded from the waiting-room.

"Come in!" bawled Jim, who was reading an evening paper by the fire. "Old Harris, I'll bet a dollar," he added to himself.

He had guessed aright. Mr Harris it was, but this time his disorder was something more substantial than a feeling as if his hair were being brushed. In point of fact, the face of the junior partner in the firm of Harris & Father was decorated with scratches.

The old man sank into a chair.

"I've come over for a box of ointment, doctor. You see these marks on my face?"

"They're pretty visible," said Jim.

"_Rebecca!_" explained the old man, in a hollow voice.

"Miss Nathan?"

"Yes, that was the party vot done it."

"Showing her affection for her future father-in-law rather early in the day?" ventured Jim.

"_Father-in-law?_--not me! She'll never marry that velp Isaac. She's about finished vith '_im_!"

"That's good news," said Jim. "Who's the new young man?"

"Vy," said the provision dealer, "I'm thinkin' she'll be after _you_ next, doctor!"

"_Me!_" said Jim, looking so amazed that the old Jew was seized with a most unpleasant spasm of mirth.

"Yes, ever since you chucked Isaac out that night," he explained, "she's referred to you in an admirin' vay vich turns Isaac simply yeller. Yes, I told you she'd marry a gentleman, and you're 'er choice, my dear sir!"

And again the old man's throat gave out a croaking wheeze which, by a lurid effort of the imagination, might be described as laughter.

"So you will understand," added Mr Harris, "that Isaac don't love yer. In fact, I believe 'e set those 'Ooligans on yer in Pine Court."

"You think that?" inquired Jim, sharply.

"It's a bad thing to say of one's own flesh an' blood," returned Mr Harris, "but I think 'e did. I want to _varn_ yer, doctor; keep yer eye open, for them ruffians ain't done vith yer yet--nor 'as Isaac."

"You imagine they'll have another go at me?" said Jim.

"I do," said the old man, "and next time they'll make dead sure of yer. They're not men--they're wolves. They never forgive. That's their natur'--and Isaac's."

Jim pulled at his pipe thoughtfully. He felt that the old Jew, despite Isaac's unfilial conduct, would not have denounced his own son in this way if there had not been serious reasons for his so doing.

"I'll remember your warning, Mr Harris," he said at length; "and now," he added, "let me see what I can do for you. Stand here by the gas, will you?"

The old man obeyed.

"She went for you pretty hard," remarked Jim, proceeding to mix up some healing ointment for his patient; "how did it happen?"

"Like this," said Mr Harris. "Last night Isaac and I vos invited to spend the evenin' at the Nathans. On'y she and 'er brother vos there--the old 'uns vos out. 'Er brother is a big loud feller, and despises Isaac. Vell, ve set down to cards--'Uncle Sam' vos the game----"

"A tricky one, too," put in Jim.

"So ve found," added the provision dealer, "for Rebecca, she von nearly ev'ry pool. After a bit I votched 'er close, and found some of the cards vos marked. So I says: 'Rebecca,' I says, 'you ain't playin' fair,' I says. '_Vot!_' she cries, colourin' up. 'Vy,' I says, 'you're cheatin', my dear!' Yes, I said that--to 'er face--and she up and let me 'ave 'er nails--all ten of 'em--down my face, an' 'er brother 'e says if I vosn't an old man 'e'd throw me out of the 'ouse. Yes, 'e said that. And I says, 'Isaac,' I says, 'vill you see your old fader used in this vay, vithout raisin' a 'and to 'elp 'im?' But Isaac was turnin' green an' pink, and didn't dare say nothink, so ven I'd got out of Rebecca's clutches I ups vith my glass of gin-and-vater an' lets Rebecca's brother 'ave it full in the face, an' then I gets 'old of the poker an' I says: 'Touch me,' I says, 'an' I'll rap you over the skull,' I says. Yes, like that! And he daren't put a finger on me, so I gets my 'at an' off I goes, and if they've got my money I've got their poker--yes, and I'll keep it, too--yes, and that's vot 'appened, doctor dear."

"Bravo!" said Jim, who had listened to this improving story with all possible interest. "You're quite a scrapper, Mr Harris."

But the old man, whose eyes had burnt fiercely during his recital of the incident, sat down with a sigh.

"But it's vorse than ever at 'ome, now," he said. "Isaac, 'e's like a vild beast. 'E sees vot Rebecca is, and yet 'e's mad after 'er still. Yes, that's 'is state."

It was hardly to be supposed that Jim would evince any sympathy for the young Jew, knowing, as he did, that Isaac had put the Hooligans on his track in Pine Court that night. But Jim felt for the old dealer.

"Now, look here, Mr Harris," he said, "if you pull up and play the man you can get that business back, and be your own master again."

But the dealer shook his head. A reaction had followed his animated account of the card-party, and he seemed to have shrunk into a smaller and older man than he really was.

He took the ointment Jim handed to him and put on his hat. His grey locks were unkempt, his clothes shabby and unbrushed, his eyes dim. He presented, indeed, a pathetic spectacle. Bidding Jim good evening, the old Jew, with bowed shoulders, crept out of the surgery, and trudged away through the December drizzle to resume his joyless tasks at the provision shop.

For some time Jim sat by his fire thinking over the words of warning Mr Harris had uttered. Next time, the provision dealer had said, the Hooligans would make sure of him.

Of a sudden, a pebble crashed through the waiting-room window. Jim started to his feet, hurried into the passage, and threw open the front door. Mount Street was the picture of desolation; a light, clammy rain was descending steadily, and the pavements were deserted. One figure, however, was plainly visible by the lamp-post on the opposite pavement--that of a man with his head bound up.

In a flash Jim recognised him as one of the gang that had assaulted him in Pine Court--this was the man, indeed, whom he had knocked down early in the proceedings.

Instantly on making this discovery Jim strode across the road. As quickly the man vanished down an alley. Jim, reaching the entrance to the alley, hesitated. Might not this fellow be acting as a decoy?

Jim had learnt prudence. Slowly he turned on his heel and went back to the surgery. Closing the street door, he resumed his chair by the fire, and in a narrow street just off the alley a group of Hooligans, baffled again, uttered curses of disappointment as they slowly dispersed about their bad business.

*CHAPTER XXIII.*

*THE IVORY FAN.*

"In my opinion," quoth Miss Bird, looking up from her embroidery (she was making Dora a table-centre for a wedding present), "girls have too many dresses. When I was your age, my dear, I had two dresses--one for everyday and the other for Sundays. They were both black. In those days girls were taught to be contented with a few clothes, and to make them last a _very_ long time!"

"How long did you have to make your best dress last?" asked Dora.

"Five years," said Miss Bird.

"Just fancy!" cried Dora. "Why, it must have been _green_ by that time."

"It _was_ green," acknowledged Miss Bird, with a hard smile.

"And you still wore it?"

"Of course I wore it! I had no other."

"But you must have _hated_ wearing it!"

"I _did_ hate wearing it," said Miss Bird; "I loathed the sight of it. I could have torn it to pieces. But it was my only good dress, and so I kept it in constant repair, and cleaned it, and brushed it, and put it away very carefully every Sunday night or after a party. Ah! young girls had a very different time of it forty years ago, _I_ can tell you, my dear!"

Dora gazed at Miss Bird in some surprise. The severe-looking maiden lady seldom spoke so feelingly. Yet, of late, she had talked to Dora a good deal. Dora had given up her situation at the post-office--by Harold Jefferson's express desire--and so was at home all day now. Consequently, she and Miss Bird saw much of each other, and a kind of little friendliness had grown up between them which had never existed previously. In fact, before this cold, wet January set in, Miss Bird had seemed to entertain a feeling of dislike for Dora.