Chapter II: Part 2

"But, at the same time, mind you, I believe in the notion that Sunday is a day of rest. A man's 'ouse is 'is own of a Sunday, I always say. And so I ain't never raised no objections to mine amusin' 'isself; and I can't say that no 'arm 'as ever come of my good nature. Not till now. But now we see the fruits of it.

"You see, Doctor, 'e's bin reading up the subject o' his vitals. And the long and short of it is as 'e's took to what 'e calls 'is nature treatment. Not a tea-cup full o' beer will 'e 'ave inside the 'ouse, Doctor. Not a spoonful. It's water--water, always water. That an' cocoa. Fancy a drayman drinking cocoa, Doctor!"

"Cocoa is a very wholesome drink," asserted the doctor.

"For supper--yes," assented Mrs. Skelp. "I agree with you there, Doctor. But 'ooever 'eard of cocoa for breakfast and water for dinner and water for tea? And not a drop of beer from one week's end to the other? Fancy a drayman without 'is beer, Doctor!"

"He is probably much better without it," suggested Dr. Brink.

"_Better_ without it?" echoed the visitor. "Without beer? A drayman? Workin' ten an' twelve hours on the stretch? You _live_ with 'im, Doctor, and see if 'e's better without it ... Not that I wish you no 'arm."

"And what," said the doctor, looking earnestly at his watch, "and--er--what----"

"Well, Doctor," interpolated Mrs. Skelp, "I really come to see if you could give me a stifficut. We must do something-."

"A certificate of what?" demanded the doctor.

"To say 'e needs it--fur the good o' 'is 'ealth, you know. We can never go on like this. A little stifficut, Doctor, to say 'e needs it."

"Needs what?" exclaimed the doctor, yawning wearily.

"The beer," responded Mrs. Skelp. "This water will be the ruin of 'im, Doctor, and me, too. 'E gets so down'earted, Doctor, so solemn-minded, so short-spoken."

"I have already told you, Mrs. Skelp"--the Doctor put on his heaviest consulting-room manner--"I have already told you that your husband is probably better off without the beer. How, then, can you expect me--especially since I haven't seen him--to give you the certificate which you ask for? And what difference would it make if I did?"

"'E wouldn't go against the doctor's orders, sir. Skelp is not that sort of man. 'E knows 'is place, sir. I on'y got to show him a brief from you, Doctor, to say that what he wants is so many pints to nourish 'is system, and there would be a end to all this nonsense. A drayman must 'ave beer, Doctor."

"A drayman must have nothing of the sort, Mrs. Skelp. What a drayman must have is plenty of rump steak and jam roll and a quiet life and a jolly time. Why do you want him to have this beer? Are you any better off when he does have it? The more he spends on beer the less there is for the home, you know."

"Mine ain't that sort," asserted Mrs. Skelp, with a touch of asperity in her tone: "_I_ keep Skelp's money. What he wants--is beer. The man's got that down-'earted 'e isn't fit to live with. A drayman must 'ave beer."

Dr. Brink inspected his watch again. "Well, Mrs. Skelp," he said, "you've had more than your share of my time. Send him round to-morrow evening, and I'll tell you what I think about it. Good-night."

"My own idea, Doctor," said Mrs. Skelp, as she made her exit, "is a pint an' a 'arf--let us say two pints--of stout and bitter. But I leave the particklers to you, sir."

When she had really gone the doctor saw some other patients--droves of them. And the last of the drove was a large red man, who had called in to discuss his "constitootion."

"It's run down, Doctor," he explained. "That's what it is. Me constitootion is run down. Whenever I draws a slow, long breath, it is the same as if there was snakes and scorpions inside me. Very painful it is."

"Then take a quick, short breath," suggested Dr. Brink.

The patient ignored this obvious response. He did not pay his sixpence to be treated to the obvious. "Also," he continued, "it 'urts me when I whistle."

"Then don't whistle," said the doctor.

"The long and the short of it is," pursued the patient, again ignoring the voice of science, "that my constitootion is thoroughly run down.... I ... I was wondering, Doctor.... Can you tell me if water is a safe thing for anybody to drink?"

The Doctor started. "Water is Nature's beverage," he observed.

"But don't you think, Doctor," suggested the invalid, "that when a man 'as got 'is constitootion into a thoroughly onnatural state, the same as what mine is, that a pint or so of onnatural licker----"

"Oh ... a pint or so ... yes," put in the doctor.

"I bin drinking a lot o' water lately," continued the patient. "I thought I would give it a trial, Doctor, being Nature's beverage and what not, and so highly spoke of in the papers. But I come to the conclusion, Doctor, as it don't get on wiv my constitootion. I got a very peculiar constitootion, Doctor, and it is very much run down. Whenever I turn me eyes up, Doctor, a 'orrible sickly feeling comes over me."

"Turn 'em down then," said the doctor.

"You don't approve of all this water, then?" inquired the patient. "You think, per'aps, a pint or two of ale----"

"A pint or two of ale? Oh, certainly."

"Or stout, Doctor? Say stout and bitter. A couple o' pints o' stout and bitter, Doctor; what? To brace up me constitootion like. What?"

"Stout and bitter," pronounced the doctor, "has, in certain circumstances, a high tonic value."

"Thank you, Doctor. Would you be kind enough to put it in writin', Doctor? I'm a family man, ye see, and seein' as I shall be takin' this tonic for the good o' my constitootion, I thought per'aps--you see my meanin', Doctor?"

"Quite," said the doctor, reaching out for a half-sheet of notepaper. "Your name and address?"

"Skelp," responded the patient. "Samuel Skelp, of Peacock Street. My missus is one o' your oldest customers."

*VIII*

*THE WAY OF THE EAST*

We had eaten a belated supper and drunk of a belated cup, and the doctor, yawning cheerfully, had doffed the vestments of respectability, when there came a ring upon the night-bell. The doctor's comment on this happening is of no historical importance. It possessed but a topical interest. Myself, I stumbled down the darkling stairs, and, upon opening the street door, was confronted by a respectfully intoxicated giant, who gave the name of Potter. "Potter, of Mulberry Street," he added, as a more explicit afterthought. He demanded Dr. Brink, explaining the urgent requirements of Mrs. Potter.

"Have you your card?" I inquired in the cold, commercial tone which this occasion warranted.

Mr. Potter removed his cap--a peaked object, of nautical aspect--and from the lining of this he extracted a square of pink pasteboard. This voucher represented at once a receipt and a warranty, being in the first sense an acknowledgment of the sum of ten shillings and sixpence, paid to Dr. Brink in anticipation of certain services, and recording, secondly, a promise from the doctor duly and solemnly to render and perform those services. "And beggin' yere pardon, young man," said Mr. Potter, in a voice of gloom, "I was to tell you from me aunt that the pains is comin' on a treat."

I had scarcely conveyed this joyful intelligence to Dr. Brink, ere that gentleman announced himself as being ready to embark upon the enterprise demanded of him, having clad himself in a fanciful costume consisting of unlaced boots, slack trousers, a pyjama jacket, an overcoat, and the inevitable top hat. He cheerfully accepted my offer to bear him company upon his journey through the night-bound alleyways, and together we sallied forth.

But when we came to the first dim street lamp a sudden monstrous shape appeared within the circle of its radiance, and fawned upon us silently. I wondered, not too hopefully, whether the things which rattled within the doctor's bag were of sound and sterling substance. For we were not regularly armed, and this monster--but he spoke, and thereby set my doubts at rest.

"It is only Potter," murmured the monster, with an apologetic shuffle. "There's some funny birds as stands abaht the corners yere be night, and Mulberry Street is rather a confusin' street to come at, and I thought per'aps as you would be alone, Doctor, and so I took the liberty. It is a cold night for the time o' the year: what? I was to tell you, Doctor, that the pains is comin' on most beautiful."

Mr. Potter committed other information to our confidence. He was a stevedore, he said; and he described the trials of that calling.

"It is a 'ard life, a stevedore, what with the 'eat and 'urry and all. Me and my mates, we shifted two 'underd an' twenty tons o' sugar this very day. But I'm 'oping for a wink o' sleep to-night. What with the pains so good and all. I could do with some sleep. Not that I wish the pore woman no 'arm. She bin a decent wife to me. But I seems to want some sleep. We shifted two 'underd an' twenty tons o' sugar to-day, me an' my mates. I see you brought your tool kit, Doctor. I find it cold for the time o' the year. Christ, but I do feel sleepy."

"I think that I can promise you a wink or two," replied the doctor cheerfully. "You'll be in bed and asleep before two o'clock."

"Much obliged to you, Doctor, I'm sure, Doctor," said the stevedore gratefully. "Me aunt is certainly of opinion that the pains look very promising. I could do wiv a few hours' sleep. Bin shifting sugar all the day. Two 'underd and twenty ton we moved, and there's as much standin' by what I got to punch into termorrow. I'm 'opin' fur a gel."

We came to Mulberry Street, wherein the residence of Mr. Potter could be immediately detected, by reason of the fact that its door stood open--a certain signal in this land of an expected visit from the doctor. We entered the open doorway, and were greeted cheerfully by auntie--an old, untidy, work-stained woman, very drunk.

The stevedore conducted me into a dishevelled kitchen, musty and cramped and cobwebby. He accepted a cigarette, and spat into the fire, and looked at me stupidly. "Two 'underd an' twenty ton!" he exclaimed. "Don't I deserve some blessed sleep?" And there came from some adjacent place an answering moan.

I looked through the door of the kitchen and into the grimy little passage beyond it, wherein an open door gave access to another room. The doctor was in this room, and auntie, and also, I supposed, the stevedore's wife. There came from this apartment certain sounds as of joy and suffering commingled. It is but fair to state that most of the joyful sounds appeared to be uttered by auntie. Auntie had chased away dull care.

It was, indeed, a perfectly refulgent auntie who subsequently lolloped in upon us, carrying a bundle. "'Ere y' are, ole glum-face," chirruped auntie; "take young Joe. An' mind as 'e don't 'oller. Where you put that jug?"

Mr. Potter seized the bundle, and, loosening its folds, exposed a rather maculate small boy, having the paternal cast of feature.

"Look at 'is chest," observed the father simply. "This is ye're sort for punchin' into sugar. Auntie, where's the other one?"

"Alf," responded auntie, "is all right where 'e is. Alfie's old enough to be'ave 'isself. Mind young Joe don't 'oller. Where you put that jug?"

Joe's reply was drowned by a pitiful cry which came from the other room. But auntie found the jug all right. "'Ere's to a gel, ole dear!" quoth auntie. But ... there came that cry again.... At which the old woman regretfully parted from us and the jug and returned to her pious duty of hindering Dr. Brink.

And Mr. Potter once more directed my attention to the physical perfections of his offspring. "I'm proud o' this bloke," he said. "My on'y longin' is to see 'im grow up straight and punch the coal abaht. I do not grudge 'im nuthink. Y' oughter see 'im of a Sunday: 'e ain't 'arf a nib o' Sundays. Velvets and all, ye know. I 'ope the Doctor 'll look sharp. I got a 'eavy day termorrer. My missus is a decent woman, and I don't wish 'er no 'arm; but Gawd knows as I want some sleep be this time. 'Ere's Fred."

Fred was a listless youth, kin to the stevedore. And he came in tired and pale, having "done a whack o' overtime at the pickle works." And he said no word to anybody, but set a saucepan on the sullen fire and sat beside it, stupidly, waiting for an egg to boil. "She don't 'arf sing about it." "What?" demanded the husband, almost savagely. "Ah!" responded Fred.

Then there rang out another sound--the voice of auntie, raised in raucous laughter. "My Gawd!" she cried, "'ow's that for a beauty?"

Mr. Potter shook the drowsy, silent child upon his knee. "Cheer up, Joe," he cried; "you're cut out now, me lad. You ain't the baby any more. D'jeer? Then gimme a bleedin' kiss."

Auntie appeared for a moment in the doorway. "Boy," said she.

Mr. Potter's joy was, for a moment, modified by this announcement. "It was a gel I wished for," he said. "It was a gel we wanted." He rubbed his chin upon young Joseph's yellow head.

"But," he continued, beholding suddenly a pleasant truth, "we shall get some blessed sleep at ennyrate.... Ain't it time that little beggar started in to cry?"

But the boy Fred, to whom Mr. Potter presumably addressed himself, offered no reply. He was engaged in boiling his egg.

"I _should_ like to 'ear the beggar cry, though," said Mr. Potter wistfully, after a pause. He rubbed his chin on Joseph's head again. The boy Fred stirred his saucepan. "Funny, ain't it," mused the stevedore, "that the little chap don't 'oller?" But as he spoke, the little chap responded. "That's done it," cried the stevedore, and rubbed his chin on Joseph's head.

And then I clearly heard the voice of auntie. "That young man what's with you, Doctor, is 'e a doctor, too?"

"Not exactly a doctor," responded Brink; "but he knows quite as much about medicine as any doctor."

"Because," pursued auntie, "the young man might like to step in and see this baby. It's the biggest baby ever _I_ see."

"So it is," assented the doctor. "So he would."

He thought, God help him, that it would please me to see inside that room.

And so he called to me, and I stepped forward and found myself in front of a reality. You know the thing, of course: a poor, white woman in a poor, white bed. And---- But need I describe it? You know it all, don't you?

You do not know it.

I know it--now. I know what is the way of the East. I will tell you what I saw.

I saw a bare brown mattress, and on it lay a moaning woman, fully dressed: _entirely_ dressed. And at her head there lay the new-born babe, and at the baby's head another child--a child of six. And when I entered in this child made speech. "Auntie's gointer dress him soon," he said.

"This, my pure young friend," said Doctor Brink, "is a typical _mise en scene_. Every detail is correct."

"Correct?" squawked the triumphant auntie. "It's a double-adjectived marvel ... You're a genelman, Doctor!"

I ran away from this sick-room. I ran out into the rain.... I observed, as I ran past him, that the boy Frederick had boiled his egg and was eating it.

*IX*

*THE 'POTHECARY*

The curious establishment of Dr. Brink contained one curiosity which I have not yet described to you. His name was Gilkes--Samuel de Quincey Gilkes--and he was poor and unwashed, and angular and polite, and full of wonder.

He was Dr. Brink's dispenser, or, as the natives preferred to have it, the 'Pothecary.

Gilkes was a tall man, especially for a 'Pothecary, the races of 'Pothecaries being commonly little and round and complacent. But Gilkes was a giant of his species; albeit, he was timid and obliging, and carried his stature with an air of not wishing to create comment. He had long brown hair and a vague mouth, and very lean hands, with which he stroked the furniture when he spoke to you. His eyes were blue, but of an exceptional paleness, and they were restless, seeking eyes, which looked beyond you, as if they saw the sea with ships upon it. I think that Mr. Gilkes deserves a little paper to himself.

I should have told you that he was not a very young man, having reached, perhaps, his fortieth year. But his heart was filled with a serene and youthful hope; for he cherished the belief that he would one day pass his final examination in surgery and medicine, and would take his degree and figure upon the rolls as a fully licenced practitioner. In the meantime he was humble.

I have often listened to his sorrowful reproaches when Dr. Brink, weary of the delays occasioned by his apothecary's interest in distant ships, would hurl himself into the little dispensary and concoct the bottles of light brown with his own hand.

"You shouldn't, sir," the 'Pothecary would say; "you shouldn't. You mustn't. It isn't fitting, sir. It isn't proper. It isn't the thing. I know I'm remiss. I know I'm slow. You ought to discharge me. You ought to discharge me. I must pass my final. I certainly must. You oughtn't to do it. Two grains calomel. Two grains calomel. I certainly must. Certainly. Certainly." And then, his utterance growing fainter and finally ceasing, the 'Pothecary would rest his chin upon a hand and look out once again upon the ships at sea, and somebody would go without his calomel.

Mr. Gilkes had also the habit of rising late--a detestable habit. And it therefore happened that the doctor's waiting-room would be filled with impatient women before his dispenser arrived to make up the "light browns" and "dark reds," upon which they lavished so much faith.

But when the 'Pothecary did arrive there was always an apology upon his lips--the same apology every time. "I'm late again, sir; late again. Forty minutes late. I'm awful, sir; awful. You will have to discharge me. I'm always late. I'm awful. It won't do. It isn't fair. I shall have to go. I must pass my final. Sach. Ust. For Mr. Jenner, sir? Yes, sir. Sach. Ust. Sach. Ust. I'm awful; awful."

The doctor and James invariably observed the form of asking him up to tea. But with equal regularity he would reply with a formula of plaintive, almost passionate protest. "Impossible, sir. Not for a minute. You mustn't. You can't. I'm not worth it, sir. It isn't usual, sir. It isn't the thing. When I've passed my final, sir--perhaps then. Perhaps then. I _will_ pass my final, sir. I must."

And Mr. Gilkes would sight a sail and watch it eagerly with a little fluttering smile.

He always dressed himself in shabby black. This emphasised his stature and the exceeding leanness of him. It also served to disguise the unnatural colour of his linen, He did not smoke, and they naturally say that he drank. But I never saw him drunk. He would sometimes look out upon his ship with the gaze of one who is intoxicated with the splendour of his visions. But this is not the same as being drunk.

Wilfered, his successor in the post of 'Pothecary (for you will understand that Mr. Gilkes became impossible), has placed on record that "Gilkes fair give you the 'errors, a-talkin' to 'isself the livelong day and strokin' the bottles and seein' snakes." But Wilfered is young and strenuous, and efficient. His heart is in his work. He adds the water to the sugar with extreme exactitude, and, not being versed in the language of pharmacy, he is convinced that not merely the reputation of Dr. Brink, but the very lives of all his patients are bound up in the exact and scrupulous decoction of the liquids committed to his care. But he does not interest himself in distant ships.

For myself, I am sorry that Mr. Gilkes became impossible. I like dumb animals.

I shall always remember the evening when, coming unexpectedly to the house, I saw him sitting by a window with the light from the setting sun upon his face and shabby coat. He was talking to James. And James has the knack of making people talk much.

"He writes, does he?" said the 'Pothecary. (I think that the question must have applied to your servant.) "He would. Of course he would. Quite naturally. Just so. Of course. Some people can write. They have the trick. Some people can do anything. Anything. I must pass my final. They thought I was going to be a writer myself once. To write poetry, I suppose. 'He's half a poet,' they use to say, 'half a poet.'

"But I wasn't worth the compliment. I couldn't find the rhymes, you know. I could see it all--sometimes, you know; but I couldn't find the rhymes. Once I nearly reached it, but only once--only nearly. You see, I--I haven't even passed my final. Not yet. But I will. I must. I nearly did it last time--nearly. Nearly."

His voice dropped low; so low that you could hardly hear it. And he looked out to sea again; but not with gladness. I think he saw some sort of hulk or derelict.

*X*

*THE MOTHER'S TRADE UNION*

"My motter," said 'Ost 'Uggins decisively, "is 'Live an' let live.' We won't deny but what the young woman 'as acted wrongful. She 'as broke an important commandment, as we all know, besides puttin' my 'ole establishment to expense and inconvenience. Besides upsettin' my good lady. Besides disgracin' 'er fambily.

"But at the same time I can't forget that my mother's father was 'isself a fondling. And we live in a Keristian age. And the one as is most to blame is the _man_, 'ooever 'e may be, the ugly 'ound. What'll you take, Doctor?"

"Ginger b----," began the doctor, having knowledge of the Mile End drink traffic. But he checked himself, yielding, I suppose, to the reflection that duty called for a more enthusiastic response to 'Ost 'Uggins's hospitality.

"I will have a glass of--of whatever you drink yourself," said the doctor.

'Ost 'Uggins favoured us with a heavy wink. His face and figure as he stood there behind the marble counter of his "saloon compartment" suggested coarseness and obesity and vulgarity and opulence and ignorance, and--and manhood.

They used to say that pigs could fly,
Oh, aye, oh!
They used to say that pigs could fly
A hundred years ago.

It is certain that _this_ pig could fly. For "Live and let live" was his motto. The pig is an animal which is held in unwarrantable disdain by pious men.

Having concluded the wink, 'Ost 'Uggins inserted a ponderous hand into a nook concealed by a framed portrait of himself--it represented Mr. Huggins in the costume of an Arch Grand something or other of the Ancient and Vociferous Order of Somebodies--and produced therefrom a special, private, and particular bottle. This vessel, 'Ost 'Uggins was at pains to make clear, contained "real licker." He did not pour its precious golden drops into the muddy stream of commerce; but, on the contrary, he kept them tightly corked, and in strict reserve for the appreciative palates of his kindred and convives. "This is the real thing," said Mr. Huggins; "no sale for it yere."

"'Ere's to your 'ealth, Doctor," pursued 'Ost 'Uggins, "and to this young man's as well. And 'ere's wishin' that foolish young female well over 'er whack o' trouble. What's the missus 'ad to say to you _to-day_?"

"Same as before," replied the doctor. "She says the girl's a hussy. She says she always knew it. She says you are pig-headed and obstinate, and she _will_ be mistress in her own house, and why don't you put up a notice saying, 'Beds for lying-in kept here,' and be done with it. And if the girl had done her duty and attended to business and kept the glasses washed instead of for ever gossiping with the Jew boys on the saloon side, this thing would never have happened. And if girls are to be petted and pampered for being bad, what is the use of having marriage lines and living decent? She also intimates that your attitude in this matter is not becoming to a married man. If she were a jealous woman she _might_ begin to wonder if----"

Mr. Huggins smiled broadly. "My good lady, as the sayin' goes," quoth he, "would talk the 'ind leg off a donkey. But we understand each other, 'er and me, and ... we've buried three. I bin in this business for forty year, man and boy. I know life. We understand each other, Doctor. What? 'Ave another.

"'Live and let live' is _my_ motter. She bin with us three years, that silly kid. She could go further with the eighteen gallons nor any young woman as ever served in my bar. Where's she to go if my wife as 'er way? And the kid? We buried three ourselves, which is a thing what you might think would soften a woman's 'eart. But it don't, not in circs. like this. These good women they _got_ no 'eart--not when it comes to bad women. It's a sort of--a sort of----"

"Trade unionism," suggested Dr. Brink. And 'Ost 'Uggins, who at first looked solemn and inquiring, gradually smiled his assent to Dr. Brink's suggestion.

"I s'pose poor Phoebe _is_ a blackleg," he mused. "But my motter is 'Live and let live.' She was wonderful coaxing with the disorderlies. What else my missus say to you?"

"She said you were looking for trouble."

"What else?"

"She said, 'Minx!' 'Damned devil!' 'Disgraceful slut!'"

"Anythink else?"

"She said that either the hussy or she would leave this house."

"And what did _you_ say, Doctor?"

"I said that the girl was not fit to be moved, and that SHE couldn't be spared."

"And what did she say to that?"

"She said that we had made up a fine old tale between us, I and her old man."

"Is that the lot?"

"That's the lot."

"Very well then," commented Mr. Huggins. "Do you know what I shall say to it all, Doctor? I shall say: 'Tut, woman; tut!'"

"Meaning?" queried the doctor.

"Meaning?" echoed 'Ost 'Uggins, as he thumped his fist upon the counter, not without menace to its marble surface, "meaning that I am a man of few words: that I _will_ be master in me own 'ouse: that my motter is 'Live and let live.' That I won't see a pore girl drove to ruin not for all the cantankerous whims of all the cantankerous wives in all----.

"Below there! 'Ush!" he added, with a sudden dropping of his voice. "'Ere _is_ the missus!"

* * * * *

"Where you gointer, you George?" demanded the missus, as George prepared to leave us.

"Goin' to find that fat-'eaded boy, my dear," responded George. "There's a barrel wants tappin'."

"There's a lot more than barrels wants tappin' in this 'ouse," said Mistress Huggins, with an air which was evidently intended to be significant of much. "What you done with that gel?"

"Me, my dear?" responded the fist-strong Huggins. "Me? _I_ ain't moved 'er."

"Time you did, then. When's she gointer leave this 'ouse?"

'Ost 'Uggins gently but firmly retreated. "I bin discussin' it over with the doctor, my dear," he explained, upon gaining the little glass door which led into their private parlour. "'_E'll_ tell you all about it. That's right, ain't it, Doctor? You'll tell 'er all about it. Don't forget my motter, Doctor." And Mr. Huggins obliterated himself.

Mrs. Huggins, upon the contrary, and as it might be, intensified herself. "Look here, Doctor What-its-name," she said, "I kin spot the little game what is bein' played between the landlord an' you, same's if I was partner. You are gettin' up a conspiracy. See? _I_ know it. _I_ can't be fooled."

Mrs. Muggins was a mud-coloured woman, with a smouldering eye. She had rings on every finger and more knuckles than rings.

"_I_ can't be fooled!" she repeated. "What you doin' with that gel?"

"Leaving her where she is," responded the doctor. "She really isn't fit to be moved." He added this information in the tone of one imparting confidences to a friend.

"Fit or not fit, do you suppose I'm gointer _let_ 'er stop there? A low, ondecent 'ussy like what she is, to lie between my honest sheets! Take the gel away, I tell you! Do you want to make trouble between a man and 'is wife? Take the gel away!"

Dr. Brink assumed a highly authoritative tone. "It is my duty as a doctor, madam," said he, "to warn you that the girl is not fit to be moved. And your husband, who in law is the responsible head of this house, agrees with me that----"

"Why ain't she fit to be moved? Answer me that?" rasped the woman.

"Because," said the doctor, as 'Ost 'Uggins's expressive features came peeking round the doorpost, "because a poor girl of twenty who has just given birth to----"

"Given birth!" shrieked the woman. _"Given birth_! And in my 'ouse!

"The disgraceful, shameless thing! And me to be kept in ignorance! And now I think of it, I did seem to think or fancy as I heered a squallin'. In _my_ 'ouse above all! May the Lord---- 'Ssh! What's that?"

"That," explained 'Ost 'Uggins, obtruding a further portion of his face, "is the little bleater callin' for 'is vittles."

Mrs. Muggins's face grew strangely red, her lip grew strangely tremulous. "It's a funny thing to me," she said, "to think as I wasn't allowed to know.... 'Oo's with 'er?"

"Mrs. Tuck, from the cabyard," responded 'Ost 'Uggins, "'as laid the fondling out an' that."

Mrs. Huggins stamped a foot. "You clumsy fool!" she cried. "What do we want your Mrs. Tucks for? A drunken piece like she is! Ain't you got enough to do in the bar without pokin' your nose into a woman's business like what this is?

"And me the last to 'ear of it! In me own 'ouse, too! Me that has buried three.

"Mrs. Tuck! Fools! Let me pass, you George! That child 'll 'ave convulsions in a minute! ... Mrs. Tuck in my 'ouse!"

* * * * *

"I wish," murmured the doctor hopelessly, as he mopped his forehead, "that I could understand the rules of their Society."

*XI*

*THE DIAGNOSIS*

I have heard it said by the enemies of Dr. Brink that he is surly, or, as some prefer to have it, brusque. I cannot too strongly express my disagreement with this view. I know the doctor intimately, and I can assert with confidence that in private intercourse he is the soul of courtesy, exactitude, and punctilio. If, during business hours, he becomes what Mrs. Duke calls "crisp"--and I won't deny that this thing sometimes happens--it behoves us, as an audience of Christian people, to view this failing with the eye of charity, and to think of the temptations which the poor man has to face.

Bovingdon Street has many graces; but gifts of mind are not conspicuous amongst them. The capacity for giving evidence is possibly an instinct and possibly an art, and even more possibly it is both. But it is a certain thing that working a mangle makes you stupid. Which, of course, accounts for Mrs. Rafferty.

She called in yesterday--a little, jug-shaped woman, having a limp fringe and mysterious pains. She is a fine example of the sort of temptation which is always luring on the Doctor to display his horrible power of crispness. She is a fine example of the Bovingdon Street matron.

I happened to be helping James to make a pancake when she came along, and I was therefore privileged to overhear the particulars of Mrs. Rafferty's disorder. And if I record exactly the dialogue to which I listened, you will be able to judge as well as I or Mrs. Rafferty whether the Doctor's sixpennyworth of diagnosis was value for money. Behold, the chronicles:--

MRS. RAFFERTY: It's my pore back I come to see you for, Doctor: that and a sort of dizziness what takes me in the leg. And me throat is sore. And I gits sich 'orrid nightmares, Doctor, and I was goin' to arst you, Doctor, do you think it right for anyone to be always feeling thirsty? Because----

DR. BRINK: How long has this been going on?

MRS. R.: I don't say as the feelin' thirsty is a unpleasant feelin', mind you; but I wondered if it was nat'ral. That's all I'm wonderin' about, Doctor. You can't 'elp noticin' anythin' like that, and anybody would fancy it's a bit queer to be _always_ feelin' thirsty. And then the 'eadaches, Doctor! They comes on all so sudden, Doctor--unexpected, like; and if it wasn't----

DOCTOR: How long has this been going on?

MRS. R.: You can see yerself 'ow pale I'm lookin', Doctor. I 'ad a drop o' stout for me breakfast 'smornin'--no more'n would fill a teacup, Doctor--and believe me or believe me not, it brought on the pains that fearful I was obliged to scream. What do you think is the matter with me, Doctor?

DOCTOR: I shall be better able to tell you when you've answered a few questions. In the first place, how long has this sort of thing been going on?

MRS. R.: It's the pain more'n the longness of it, Doctor, which I look to. And if I close my eyes and touch anythink cold with me 'ands I kin see a lot of funny green things all in front--floatin', if you understand me, Doctor. Me 'usband, when 'e was a sowjer abroad in Dublin, 'e got took with the same thing, along o' eatin' 'ysters in a onfit state.

DOCTOR: How is your appetite, by the way?

MRS. R.: I was wonderin' if me lungs is affected, Doctor. If ever I drink a cup of very 'ot tea I kin feel a funny sensation right down me froat. What I reely want is change of hair.

DOCTOR: Do you drink much tea?

MRS. R.: It's good tea what we 'ave.

DOCTOR: Do you drink much tea?

MRS. R.: And besides, Doctor, I don't see as tea kin 'urt me, because me an' my 'usband we're rather partickler about the class of----

DOCTOR: Do you drink much tea?

MRS. R.: And then again, Doctor, why should me 'air be fallin' out? I'm not a old woman. Thirty-six is my age, and I ain't ashamed to own it. It's a pity me 'air is fallin' out because they say as I'm a young-looking woman for my age. And----

DOCTOR: When did you first notice that your hair was falling?

MRS. R.: I don't think that the state of me 'air is anythink to be ashamed of, even now, mind you. But still it ain't a very pleasant thing, especially at my age. Is it anythink to do with what I eat, do you think, Doctor? I often wonder.

DOCTOR: How is your appetite?

MRS. R.: It isn't the quantity I was thinkin' of, Doctor, so much as the class of food as we go in for. We both of us got a taste for 'am an' bloaters, and so forth.

DOCTOR: Do you enjoy your food?

MRS. R.: But if me 'air is fallin' out on that account----

DOCTOR: Are you a hearty eater?

MRS. R.: Of course, Doctor, I on'y want to know what's right.

DOCTOR: You say that your appetite is good?

MRS. R.: I was sayin' about us bein' partial to 'am and so forth, Doctor. If you think I oughter stop it, I kin easy do so. I on'y wanter do what's right. What's your opinion about me, Doctor? You can see I'm very ill.

DOCTOR: I'm giving you some medicine, Mrs. Rafferty--you've brought your bottle, I see--it's a strong tonic, and there are three pills with it, which----

MRS. R.: I forgot to arst you, Doctor. Do you think a drop of stout--as much as you kin get into a egg-cup--would 'urt a little boy of five years old what's got a poverty of 'is blood? There's a neighbour o' mine--a very nice woman--wh----

DOCTOR: About these pills, Mrs. Rafferty: I want you to take one when you get in, one before you go to bed, and one----

MRS. R.: Can I take a little slice of 'am, Doctor, or must I live on slops and that?

DOCTOR: You can eat exactly what you please. This medicine will put you right. It is a very strong, dark red tonic. Do you understand about the pills, now?

MRS. R.: She's a nice woman, and it's sad to see her strugglin' along by 'erself wiv that boy to keep. And so I told 'er----

DOCTOR: Send her round to see me. You'll get your medicine from the dispenser.

MRS. R.: About me wrists, Doctor: I find that one is thicker than----

DOCTOR: Come and see me again when you've finished that medicine. Pay outside.

MRS. R.: And, Doctor, is there anything more besides the physic? I thought perhaps you would give me a pill.

DOCTOR: I am giving you three pills. One of them I want you to take when you get in, another at night, and----

MRS. R.: About the money, Doctor: I s'pose as it'll do if I pay next week?

*XII*

*THE TUSKERS*

It has not been the fortune of the present historian to enjoy a personal experience of the state of matrimony. But he has never been lacking in awe for the wonders attaching to that institution. It has always seemed to him, looking upward, as it were, from the mire of bachelordom, that the married mind is subject to rare emotions, productive of a singular philosophy which one must view with astonishment, if not with envy.

In illustration of my meaning, permit me to cite the case of the Tuskers.

The Tuskers, as we were definitely informed by Mr. Tusker, have been tasting the wedded blisses for nearly eighteen years. And Mr. Tusker called in recently at Doctor Brink's in the matter, as he expressed it, of "any old bottles, any old rags; old bones, rabbit-skins, waste paper to buy," which somehow looks wrong. Let us try again--

Any old bottles?
Any old rags?
Old bones,
Rabbit-skins,
Waste paper,
To buy!

That is better. Mr. Tusker is nothing if not lyrical.

Also, he is a massy-jawed person in a muffler, having a dent over one eye and a limpy walk. Likewise, he is accompanied by an objectionable smell, arising partly from his trade, profession, or occupation. It is an impressionist sort of smell. The impression it suggested to me was that Mr. Tusker had been subjected to long, long years of solitary confinement in an over-heated chicken-coop.

Mr. Tusker, having recited his little poem, was rewarded by a "Not to-day, thank you," from Doctor Brink.

"What?" cried Mr. Tusker. "Not any old bottles; any old rags?"

"No," insisted Doctor Brink.

"Ho," quoth Mr. Tusker. "Right you are, then. One minute, Doctor. The missus. Ahtside. Can I trouble you?"

"How?" inquired the doctor.

"You know, mate," expounded Mr. Tusker. "Below par. Orfer oats. See? Jes' run the rule over 'er, Doctor; will ye?"

"Certainly," replied the doctor, the light of intelligence at last illuminating his eye. "Bring the lady inside."

Mr. Tusker accordingly repaired to the roadway, where his barrow was in waiting. It was a roomy barrow, filled to overflowing with bulging sacks, one of which, being pushed, came to life as Mrs. Tusker, and walked into Doctor Brink's consulting-room.

She was a tired old sack, was Mrs. Tusker, much patched, even as to her face, which was further distinguished by being bruised in several places, a fact which accentuated its native homeliness.

"Below par. Orfer oats," repeated Mr. Tusker, with a jerk of the thumb in the direction of the old sack. "Jes' run yere rule over 'er, Doc."

"Had a bad accident, hasn't she?" began the doctor. "That plaster----"

"Never mind the plaster," said the husband.

"No," repeated Mrs. Tusker, "never mind that."

"Orfer oats, see?" prompted Mr. Tusker.

"Ain't got no appetite," confirmed the lady.

"'Er system. See?" added Mr. Tusker.

"Yus," assented Mrs. Tusker. "Me system."

"Jes' run yere rule over 'er," said Mr. Tusker.

"Well," mused the doctor, "want of appetite doesn't produce itself, you know. I mean to say---- Her face now. It's very swollen. The lower part espec----"

"Never mind 'er face, ole man," suggested Mr. Tusker.

"No," said the patient; "never mind me face."

"_I_ done that, ye see," remarked Mr. Tusker.

"Yus," replied Mrs. Tusker, "'e done that."

Doctor Brink, after staring hard at Mr. Tusker, resumed his inspection of the wife. "I don't know what sort of appetite you expect to have," he said, "with those four bruises. Her face is simply pul----"

"Oh!" reflected Mr. Tusker, "them marks is out o' date. They put me away for them."

Mrs. Tusker nodded.

"I--I don't quite understand," exclaimed the doctor.

"I done 'em of a Saturday night, ye see," explained the husband. "And they put me away to the Scrubs. Three weeks I was in."

"Three weeks," repeated Mrs. Tusker.

"They on'y let me out s'mornin'."

This statement was audited and found correct by Mrs. Tusker. "On'y this mornin'," she said.

"This is the state I find 'er in," continued Mr. Tusker. "Orfer oats. They put me away. See? And there wasn't no one to look arter 'er."

"Nobody to look arter me," agreed the wife.

"Her neck must be troubling her too," began the doctor. "I see she's been rather badly sca----"

"Never mind the scalding," protested Mr. Tusker. "Give 'er some physic, Doctor."

"Yus," echoed Mrs. Tusker. "Gimme some physic."

"You see," explained the husband, evidently determined that this important detail in the history of the case should not be overlooked, "I bin away. They put me away for three weeks. And this is 'ow I find 'er. She ain't 'ad no one to look arter 'er. See? Give 'er some physic, Doctor."

So they had their physic, and they went away.

I watched them passing up the road, Mr. Tusker limping behind his barrow and this peculiar old sack of his limping behind Mr. Tusker. And Mr. Tusker, as he limped, was declaiming a kind of poem--a rude sort of piece; but I've no doubt that in the ears of the old sack-thing at his heel, that which he uttered was as the music of the spheres. And the words of his poem were these:--

Any old bottles?
Any old rags?
Old bones,
Rabbit-skins,
Waste paper,
To buy!

As they receded into the endless perspective of Bovingdon Street, the sacks became confused in my sight, and I wondered which of them contained the rags and bones and bottles, or which was occupied by rabbit-skins and Mrs. Tusker.... Not that it really mattered.

*XIII*

*ART LOVERS*

Mr. Clarence Gordon Prince appeared first in the capacity of a patient. He came to have a tooth out. "Three teeth out, to tell ye the troof, Doctor," he added, and with the air of a man who had given a liberal order and knew it, he seated himself, throwing back his head and shutting both eyes.

"Want 'em all out now--at once?" demanded the doctor.

"Cert'nly," responded Clarence. "I'm a gunner."

Dr. Brink evidently perceived the point of this observation, for he made no further speech, but drew the teeth forthwith. And Clarence kept on smiling.

He performed his subsequent ablutions in silence, but, having completed them and deposited three sixpences upon the consulting-room table, he again spoke.

"Well, Doctor," he said, "I'll say good-night, and pop off," which he did.

But when he reached the door-step, Baffin found him, and Baffin rejoiced in the find. "You've been a soldier?" exclaimed Baffin.

"Gun-layer. 'Owitzer Battery, R.A. Nine year. Invalided." Clarence smiled again.

"I want you," said Baffin. "Wait there."

Mr. Prince accordingly waited, and his patience was rewarded by the reappearance of Baffin, with whom was Dr. Brink. "This gentleman," said the doctor, "is an artist. He wants you to sit for him. How tall are you?"

"Six-one-and-a-'arf."

"How much round the chest?"

"Forty-two."

"Round the arm?"

"Twenty."

"Got a shovel?"

Mr. Prince's smile gave place to a suspicious frown. "I could _get_ one," he said, at last.

"Bring it along to-morrow," commanded the doctor. "We want you to sit. You'll be well paid. You're out of work, I suppose?"

"I'm out of work all right," responded Mr. Prince. "But--but ... what you want me to do?" demanded Mr. Prince.

"Never mind that," he was told. "Just come along. And wear your oldest clothes. And bring the spade."

To the surprise of both Baffin and the doctor, Clarence did come along, accompanied by the spade. He was very out of work indeed, it seemed, and had sold his medals to pay for the comfort of having his teeth out, and for subsequent treatment at the "African Chief." He wanted work, and was willing, but this yere sitting game--"what was it?"

Baffin took him to the "studio," _nee_ wash-house, and there he drank some tea, and was confronted by an easel, and was induced to seat himself upon the extreme corner of a small chair, whilst Baffin pretended to sketch him. This proceeding is technically described as putting your model at his ease.

At the end of an hour the soldier was asked to stand up and drink beer out of a jug, a function which he performed with very tolerable grace. He was then allowed to go home.

"But come here early to-morrow morning," said Baffin. "Do you think you'll like the work?"

"Work seems all right," responded Mr. Prince. "I'll come at nine o'clock."

He arrived at the time stated, having carefully attired himself in his Sunday "blacks," and a white turn-down collar. He had likewise operated with sand upon the metal parts of his shovel, so that that instrument glittered exceedingly. Also, he had perfumed his hair. And Baffin ordered him to go home again and reinvest himself with the habiliments of toil.

The spade we kept and improved upon in a corner of the doctor's little garden--a corner in which rare bulbs were buried. Clarence returned to us looking natural and dirty, and wearing a resigned expression.

Then he sat, or rather stood, in earnest, whilst Baffin "studied" him in pencil and charcoal and crayon, and in every other sort of pigment.

And when the artist had tired of this employment, Mr. Prince came down from his platform and studied the pictures with an air of cold reserve. He said that he thought he might as well be going. And he went.

The subsequent sittings were in all respects a repetition of the first. But at the end of the week, a strange thing happened. Mr. Clarence Gordon Prince permitted himself to give utterance to a remark. He had been paid his first week's wages--a sovereign, and, having spat upon this coin and donned his jacket, he tapped Mr. Baffin with his knuckle and performed the feat in question. "One day--me lad," he said, "I'll show ye _my_ pictures."

And on the last day of his engagement he duly fulfilled the promise. He had spat upon a sovereign and donned his jacket, just as before, and he had walked towards the door, but half-way there he stopped and faced his late employer.

"Look here," he said, as he quietly divested himself of his jacket and waistcoat, "look 'ere, ole man, you've acted very fair to me, and now I'm gointer show ye my pictures."

With this preface he removed his shirt.

The wondering Baffin was then confronted with a naked chest--a chest of many colours. "The Duchess of Gainsborough," said Mr. Prince. "There's eight weeks' work in 'er. Done in Ceylon. I was soldiering in Ceylon. If you look round the corner you will see a picture of Eve bein' tempted by the serpent. On me right arm there's 'Erod's daughter, and on me left a photo of Jim Sayers. 'Ow's all this for picture work?

"I was under the needle for pretty near a twelve-month, and time I left the service there was on'y one man in the battery as could show the 'arf of what I can. I always 'ad a fancy for colour work."

The model slowly resumed his clothes. "I love a well-done chest, I do," he said.

"Not, mind you, as I am one to turn 'is nose up at a picture on the wall, same's you might make yesself. Not at all. But me own fancy is for breast and arm work. That has always bin my fancy.

"And I look upon you as a very fair and civil-spoken young man, which is why I let you see me. I'm a bit particular 'oo I show my pictures to. I'll be getting along now. Good-night, sir."

On the threshold of the door he paused again.

"One more thing, young man. I ain't the sort of bloke to show me chest around; but you've treated me decent, man to man, as the saying goes. And, therefore, if ever the fancy takes you to show me to your friends, why say the word and--'ere I am.

"I'll say good-night now."

*XIV*

*THREE BABIES*

One of the disadvantages attaching to Dr. Brink's profession is its stay-at-home character. A doctor has not time to travel. And it is a well-known fact that travelling improves the mind.

Think, for instance, how my doctor's mind would relish the improvement associated with a short spell of travel on the London, Tilbury, and Something Railroad! I travelled on this system only yesterday--it is the direct route to Dr. Brink's--and I protest that one of my fellow-travellers--a baby--was really _most_ improving.

This baby came into our compartment head downwards, and advertised his displeasure with this state of things by means at his command.

A little pale-faced girl who followed Baby uttered remonstrances, which were answered by the little rickety boy who carried him. I saw and heard these things but vaguely, because our carriage was filled with noise and smell, and its lights were dim. And many people had breathed within it, and the gentlemen about me were smoking shag tobacco.

The little pale-faced girl expressed herself with emphasis, coughing and gasping between each adjective. There was a great deal of fringe upon her forehead and a great deal of feather on her head, and some broken teeth within her mouth. She dug at her companion with a bony elbow, as they stood there, being supported in an upright attitude by means of other people's knees and also by means of a rack provided for light articles only. "You clumsy tyke, you!" shrilled the girl, by way of concluding her address.

"Hee-haw!" responded the youth, with satire. It was made evident by certain signs, such as the cheerfulness of his conversation and a sort of _neglige_ as to his fringe, that he had spent his evening amid congenial surroundings. '"Old the kid yeself, then," he added. And his companion took the child.

"What you done with them suckers?" she then demanded; upon which the young man brought forth bull's-eyes from his trouser pocket. With one of these the little girl essayed to comfort Baby, holding the evil thing between his toothless gums. But Baby continued, as before, to moan and writhe.... "I fink that beetroot ain't agreein' wiv 'im," said the girl.

The little rickety boy made no reply. He was busy, having a handful of cigarette-ends to strip and bind anew with paper. "Why don't you stop 'is noise?" he at length demanded, applying his tongue to the completed "fag." "Call yeself a mother?"

The fact as to Baby's authorship I had, of course, suspected. I perceived, however, that our fellow-passengers did not mind.

The girl did not allow the young man's question to remain unanswered. "Never trouble," she said, "what I call myself. What do you call yeself? A man, I suppose. Funny sort of man, ain't you? More like a ape. More like a crab. Fine 'usband for a person, ain't you? 'Usband, eh?"

An elderly man at my right hand removed his pipe and grinned. The gentleman opposite to him winked; and a woman in the corner giggled rustily. You might have supposed them to be tickled by a sense of the deeper irony which underlay this mother's sarcasm. But, as a matter of fact, the reflections which moved them were not of this character. The elderly man at my right explained his sentiments publicly. "Puts me in mind," he said, "of my fust. 'E were jest sich a skinny one."