Chapter III: Part 3

And Rickets spoke again. "Why can't you stop the beggar's noise?" he demanded. "Worse nor a waggon-load o' tomcats, that row is."

"What," demanded the girl, "d'you expect me to do? Put a muzzle on 'im? Why don't you take an' stop 'im yeself? 'Andy enough wiv yere tongue, you are. S'pose you show us 'ow to do the business."

"My way o' stoppin' 'im would be easy," said the boy, with a stupid grin. "I should lay a strap acrost 'is back."

His companion reapplied the elbow treatment. "You do!" she squeaked between the digs. "You do, you little ape. Let me see you. On'y let me see you. There'd be a strap 'crost your back blessed soon. Not 'arf, there wouldn't. You baboon, you!"

The girl looked helplessly at nothing, "hushing" the baby upon her breast by means of sudden, horrible, little jerks. Such a pitiful parody of rock-a-bye. She was too young and pale properly to know or understand the business of mothering, which is a difficult business to learn in your spare time, especially when they shut you out for a "quarter" if you are two minutes late at the factory. So that this London mother sucked at a bull's-eye, and yawned, and jerked, while the London baby lay in her arms and moaned.... "I fink it is the beetroot," reiterated the mother presently. "He looks so cold, Sam."

"It's wind," pronounced the boy, bringing forth a mouth-organ and carefully wiping it upon his sleeve. "Give 'im a tap, same's I told you. 'Seaweed,' mates." With which announcement the husband and father proceeded to wring out the melody of that name. We all tapped time with our feet, and the mother sucked her bull's-eye, and the baby moaned.

"He looks so cold," repeated the mother, as the mouth-organ subsided. "Give us 'Cock o' the North,' Sam."

Sam obeyed this summons with alacrity.

"If you will pardon me, young woman," observed the elderly man at my right hand, having duly applauded the soloist--"if you will pardon me, young woman, I will take the liberty of recommending a cold key. It catches the breath, if you take my meanin'. See?"

"No; I don't see," responded the mother sharply. It resented the preferment of counsel. This reflected upon its competence: this offended its sense of dignity. It was a married woman.

The husband readdressed himself to his mouth-organ. But as he put that instrument of melody unto his lips, the girl reached sharply forth and stayed him.

"E--'e seems to be a-chokin', Sam," she said. "I think--I b'lieve--I--what you grinnin' for, you ugly ape? When'll we get to Bow? 'Ow many stations? You old 'im, Sam: I b'lieve--I--he looks so cold. He looks _so_ cold."

"Give 'im another bull's-eye," suggested Sam. "There's peppermint in bull's-eyes. Next station's Bow. What are you grizzlin' for?"

"'E--'e looks so cold," explained the wife. There was a flame in her eye. A new flame--a flame of fear and joy. It was as though a match had been put to her soul. She was learning the business.

The woman in the corner left off giggling. She spoke to the mother. "You run along to bed with 'im, my gel. Never you mind about 'is looks. Run along to bed with 'im, so's 'e can be warm."

And the girl tightened her hold upon the parcels rack; and swayed her body gently, like a real mother. The boy, her husband, drew forth a series of discords from the mouth-organ. But she did not scream at him as before. She stood there, dumbly, rocking her baby like a real mother.

And the baby did not moan. The baby lay there on her bosom, silent and strangely still.

Then, with a jerk, our train pulled up. And the girl let go of the rack-rail and stumbled out. "Come on, Sam," she said, "we gotter 'urry. 'E looks so cold."

"Wait till I light me fag, then," said the boy. He struck a match on his boot-heel, and followed her, whistling cheerfully.

* * * * *

Our train moved on. And the elderly man at my right hand imparted a secret to me.

"That's their fust," he said.

I nodded, patiently.

"'E lay quiet enough when the music started. Did you notice?"

"Yes," I said, "I noticed."

"They're funny devils," said the man.

*XV*

*INGRATES*

"DR. BRINK. Important.

"DEAR DOCTOR,--Ther is a lady keeps on coming in a motor car, and her names is Mrs. Dudenay-Jones, and she is always at our place, and we think she 'as got a good intention, but my husband says he has had enough, and he thinks if we was to speak to you then perhaps you was to speak to her so perhaps she would stop it. She is a real lady, and always civil and polite, but my husband says we've had ennough. His mates has got to hear about it, and they call him Gordon Bennett, and he is a hardworking man.

"It is my daughter Kate she takes the interest in, the same what you give the light-brown mixture to for loosing her appetite. She wants to put her in a home at Margate, but my daughter has got a good home of her own, and she do not want to be beholding. And if a person goes to Margate you always bring back vermin, and there is enough work to keep a decent home without anybody need go to Margate and bring back vermin. And further and more, my Kate 'as got a bank book of her own, thank God, and when she wants to take a fortnight she can do it independent, and her young fellar the same, him what has the bottles of red from you for spots on the face.

"And so it is kindly to be hoped as you will kindly talk about it to the lady, you being reguly engaged by us for all these year, and knowing well that we are hardworking and independent, and not the kind as would wish to be beholding. And she come 4 times a week from Sat., and now it is only Tue., and she has been twice. It is no wonder as my daughter loose her appetite.

"And thanking with compts,
"Your faithl,
"SARAH BENNET,
13, Markham Street, over against the Dairy.

"P.S.--Boy got 6d. Please send a bot. light brown for my daughter. Did my daughter ought to drink a wineglass full of vineger? They tell me it is good.

"The lady has always acted civil, so I hope you'll be the same.

"S. BENNETT."

* * * * *

It was this missive, reaching the doctor at his breakfast table, which caused a beautiful philanthropist to enter his surgery at tea-time. She came in immediate response to the doctor's invitation; she came with a rush, having been carried hither by her 80-h.p. 8-cylinder light touring car.

"And, oh, _dear_ Dr. Brink," she said, "how simply charming it is to meet you! One has so often read your bright little speeches about this shocking poverty. One simply yearns to do something. How one envies you your strength, your power, your splendid opportunities. How you must _revel_ in your work here, Doctor! It must be simply charming!"

"About as charming," said the doctor, "as keeping pigs and sleeping with them."

The beautiful philanthropist broke into appreciative titters. "_Pigs_, Doctor!" she cried, with the archest look. "_Pigs_! He! he! And you call yourself a Socialist! Of course, I'm not a Socialist myself. One's husband cannot be expected to approve of such extremes as that. But one need not be a Socialist in order to feel sorry for them. Now, need one, Doctor? But when one is a woman, it is all so difficult. Oh, Doctor, can one do _nothing_?"

"One _can_," replied the doctor; "but one won't. That, madame, is the difficulty."

"I don't quite understand you," said the lady.

"You ask me," explained the doctor, "whether one can do nothing. I reply that one can: that this is all we ask of one--to do nothing."

"To do _nothing_? _D-o-c-t-o-r_!"

"It does sound revolutionary, perhaps," admitted the doctor. "But it is really true. We ask one to do _nothing_. We ask one to be so kind as to sit at home and draw threads out of teacloths. And to draw cheques. But not to leave one's blameless hearth. We ask one to keep away. The pig-stye is a dirty pig-stye, and it's got to be cleaned by dirty people. Nice people--manicured people---are best out of it. See?"

"I see that you want to be rude," said the lady, "but I don't---- What is it all about, Doctor?"

"This," said Dr. Brink. And he gave her Mrs. Bennett's letter. And she read it silently. And she stood up.

"Really, Doctor," she observed, "one doesn't quite know what to say. I'm sorry, I suppose. I will write and apologise to Mrs. Bennett. I'll go home and draw threads.

"Don't trouble to get up," she continued, as the doctor rose from his chair. "Don't trouble to get up. You are quite the rudest man I've ever met. Please don't trouble to get up."

She reached the door, but paused upon its threshold and turned to him again. "You are quite the rudest man I've ever met," she said again. "Quite the rudest.... I'll send you some money for your pigs."

*XVI*

*BAFFIN'S FIND*

Baffin came home one evening in a state of wild-eyed exaltation.

He had found _the_ face for his "Mist Maiden." Its name was Prudence Croft.

It was coming to sit next day, and certain brothers of the brush were coming also to inspect and criticise Prudence.

Baffin's panegyrics quite interested me. I invited myself to join the party and my invitation was accepted.

So that I first saw Prudence under romantic circumstances. She was sitting on a sugar-box with her bodice off. The combination of her charms and a red flannel under-garment was startling to the eye.

Prudence was occupied, it seemed, in a proceeding called "sitting for the neck and shoulders." The process was not a restful one, for Prudence had "nerves" and "fidgets" and a constant flow of anecdote. Mr. Baffin made free with expressions of entreaty, disapprobation, and despair.

For myself, I sat and stared at Prudence, being consumed with a great wonder. It wasn't the flannel which provoked this wonder. Red flannel is a hideous material, and highly moral and depressing at that. And I am sure that the spectacle of a poor, anaemic rat of an artist's model seated in "half-costume" on a sugar-box is not (in itself) an attractive one. But Prudence fascinated me as no human being had fascinated me for many days.

If any of you have felt the poignant, horrible appeal of Ophelia during the "mad scene," you will know how I felt about Prudence. Her spare, consumptive body was crowned by a neck and face and head as beautiful as any that ever were. But it was a beauty that was monstrous in its perfection, and that, therefore, hurt like some monstrosity of ugliness.

Prudence's beauty was the beauty of imbecility--that which Rossetti loved so much to draw. To look at her for long was like looking at some exotic, over-nurtured lily in a hot-house: one felt sick and restless and unmanned, and fell to longing for some robuster blossom on a hedgerow.

She had the genuine Rossetti neck--a thing which rose and swelled and died away in exquisite, maddening curves. She had the genuine Rossetti nose--straight, and small, and delicate, and sinful. She had hair, a full arm's length, that crept and clung and strayed and floated like the tendrils of a vine. She had wide, inscrutable eyes: wondering as a child's, yet filled with an awful something that was not of childhood. She had, above all else, a mouth which stung you with its beauty--blood-red lips that were open and moist and eager, like a lover's wound.

To all these charms she added the mind and speech of a mud-lark: the intelligence of a backward infant.

"Ow, Mr. Baffin," she was saying when I saw her first, "ow, Mr. Baffin, you _do_ frighten me when you swear so. I _will_ keep still: I will, reely. I won't fidget or move or talk--I won't even breathe--for a 'ole ten minnits. On'y I must tell you about me an' my sister an' the penny-in-the-slot machine. Mother give us tuppence, see, 'cos it was washin' day, an'---- ... Ow, now you're angry, Mr. Baffin. Down't be angry, Mr. Baffin. I am a wicked girl, I know I am, an' I _will_ keep still: an' Gawd knows what's to become of me when my mother dies, an' everybody 'ates me, an' I _am_ un'eppy."

The remainder of Prudence's observations were mingled with the sound of noisy sobs.

Mr. Baffin, that eminent painter, put down his palette and brush. "I'll wait," he said, "until you are dry again."

"Down't be engry with me, Mr. Baffin," moaned Prudence. "I'll be a good gel now--I will, reely--if on'y yew wown't be engry with me."

"Very well, then," answered Baffin. "You can begin to be a good girl now. I 'm not angry with you _any_ more, and if only you keep still for five little minutes while I get in the curves of the chin, I'll let you talk and wriggle as much as you like for a whole ten minutes. Now hold your head up."

So Prudence ceased her lamentations, and held her head up--for five-and-thirty seconds. At the end of that period an interesting thought occurred to her.

"It'll be Christmas in four months," she observed, wriggling delightedly. "I'm gownter give my muvver something _sow_ nice fur Christmas' I'm gownter give 'er a---- Ow, Mr. Baffin, you're angry with me agen. I _am_ a bad gel, I know I am; but----"

"You can leave off helping me for a minute or two," said Baffin quietly. "I've got to do some scraping here, so you can have the wriggle now. What is this about Christmas?"

"I got two guineas comin' to _me_ fur Christmas--per'aps. I sat to Mr. Baker fur 'is 'Birth of Wonder,' an' when 'e sells it 'e is gointer gimme two guineas!"

Baffin looked at me, and I nodded in appreciation of his glance. Everybody knows, of course, that Mr. Wilberforce Baker, the eminent Academician, disposed of his "Birth of Wonder" last June. It was his tenth annual contribution to that remarkable collection of pictures now being formed under a bequest of the late Mr. Bantry--Mr. Wilberforce Baker himself being a trustee of the fund bequeathed for that purpose. Baffin excommunicated that distinguished artist in dumb show.

"I shouldn't count on the two guineas," was all he said to Prudence. "... How long is it since you sat for Mr. Baker?"

"Ow, _ever_ so lung!" answered Prudence. "Down't know why 'tis, I'm sure, on'y I down't seem to be able to get now sittin's _now_'ow. They all say I'm pretty an' that; an' they all rave about me neck: an' they all tell me to call agen; but nothink ever comes of it. Can't make it out at _all_, I can't?"

"You are lacking in the quality of perception, my dear," explained Baffin.

"Beg your pardon?" queried Prudence.

"I say," repeated Baffin, "that you are lacking--that you are damned slow at seeing things!"

"Ow, Mr. Baffin, you _are_ a naughty man. Fancy usin' such wicked words. My mother says it is on'y bad people what uses words like that. My mother cut 'er finger yesterday, makin' toast. We got the drains up in _our_ 'ouse. Ugly things, them little kittens, ain't they? I 'ates 'em when they're crawly, like those."

Prudence, making a wry face, pointed to a basket beside the sugar-box. This contained a family of illegitimate kittens which James had adopted out of Christian charity.

"I _'ate_ cats," continued Prudence in her childish, sing-song voice. "I ate all animals. I like goin' to the theayter, though. I like goin' to church too. I like----"

She would have provided us, doubtless, with an exhaustive list of her enthusiasms; but the door of the studio opened, and gave entrance to those brothers of the brush whose coming was expected.

They looked upon Prudence, and were staggered.

"Where in Hell did you find her?" they inquired of Baffin, and discharged a volley of most wonderful expletives in evidence of their surprise and appreciation and envy. And they hanked her off the sugar-box, and turned her this way and that way, inspecting her "form" in much the same manner as that adopted by farmers when buying horseflesh.

"Chin up, please; more to the right. Now to the left. Ah! Get over there, under that top light. Profile, please. Ah! How about shoulders: salt-cellars, I expect; they always have. Pull that thing down. Ah! Not so bad as I feared. No good for the figure, but--but that neck! Trust old Baffin to find 'em, eh, John?"

There was to me something inexplicably delightful in the utter sexlessness of this admiration. To say the least, it was ungallant and sane. And Prudence evidently shared this feeling. The childish vanity in her eyes was unmistakable, and she walked back to her throne on the sugar-box with a strut that real queens might have envied.

Baffin tried to resume work on the picture; but Prudence's gifts of anecdote were as yet unexhausted, and she found it necessary to tell what Mr. Wilberforce Baker had said to Mr. Jerningham Jukes, and what Mr. J. J. had said to Mr. W. B., and what she had said to both of them, and what her mother had suffered under chloroform. And she giggled, and she wriggled, and she apologised, and she wept, and she wriggled and she giggled again. And Comrade of Brush No. 1 observed to Comrade of Brush No. 2 that this sort of thing would not be good enough at any price. Comrade No. 2 sniffed assentingly. "And what the blazes," he inquired, "does she want to wear that beastly flannel for?"

"Ah!" grunted No. 1. "I say, Baffin, why does she wear red flannel? Makes chaps sick."

Baffin referred the matter to headquarters. "What do you dress yourself up like a sore throat for, Prudence?" he inquired. "Why do you wear red flannel?"

Prudence's eyes were wide with amazement. "Ow, Mr. Baffin," she tittered, "yew _are_ a funny men! ... I got pretty things at 'owm. But what's the good o' wearin' 'em out in the studios?"

"You are lacking, my dear girl, in the quality of perception." Baffin uttered these words with an oracular air.

The Comrades made their adieux. "Not if she _paid_ me to paint her," whispered No. 1, with a jerk of the head towards Prudence. "But, Lord, _what_ a profile! A tricky man could work wonders with that head."

"Pity she spoils herself," added Comrade No. 2. And they departed.

"Hear what those gentlemen said?" demanded Baffin, as the door closed.... "You are too talkative, and you giggle too much, and you wriggle too much. And you should leave off red flannel, and make yourself nice. You could make a lot of money if you took care of yourself. Think of the nice things you could give your mother then!"

"My mother's got a abscess," moaned Prudence, "an' I believe she'll die, an' then I'll starve, 'cause I'm a good-for-nothin' gel, an' I wown't sit still, an'--an' me figure's too flat. But I'm learnin' to croshy, an' I _will_ be better. Shall I come termorrer, Mr. Baffin?"

"Come on Friday," answered Baffin. "And," he added, "come in a nice, unwrigglesome frame of mind. You shall have cream and tea and muffins if you are a good girl."

"Ooer!" cried Prudence. "I like muffins. And I like cream, and I like claret... 'Ere"--her face suddenly grew grave, grave as a child's at play with toys--"'ere, Mr. Baffin, do you believe in auctioneers?"

"Do I believe in _what_?" shouted Baffin.

"Auctioneers," repeated Prudence, with a pout. "Don't be angry with me; I won't ask agen, if you don't like.

"On'y ... what you want to look at me so queer for? I can't 'elp bein' silly. I _am_ silly. On'y ... I wonder if a auctioneer is the sort of man that anybody ought to trust?"

*XVII*

*MR. WEST'S WIFE*

"Is this the young man?" said Mrs. West, of Mulberry Street, sitting up in bed and shading a very white face with a very hot hand. "Oh, I daresay 'e'll do! 'Tain't much, I'm told. No doubt 'e'll manage it."

That task which Mrs. West, of Mulberry Street, thus coldly confided to my management was the witnessing of her will. Dr. Brink had volunteered to execute this document for her; and a sniggering youth had haled me from the snugness of the doctor's waiting chariot to come upstairs and sign.

After my formal presentation to Mrs. West, there was an interval of silence, broken only by the scratchy-scratchy of the doctor's pen, as he hastily constructed a form of bequest.

I employed this interval in taking stock of the testator's estate, the whole of which was contained within her room. There were two bedsteads, one (a little folding thing) being devoted to the uses of the sniggering boy who, be it stated, figured in the document which was now being prepared as sole legatee. The other bedstead--that on which the patient lay--was obviously a veteran bedstead which had seen much of the world. It was a circumstantial, ponderous bedstead, and wore still a pompous air, although its ironwork was rusted and its lacquered parts had quite lost their complexion. This bedstead also bore a superstructure designed to carry a canopy; but all that hung there now were certain moth-eaten petticoats. There was a chest of drawers among the assets, and a cork model of the Tower of London, and a wash-basin and two soap dishes, and two dumb clocks and the mechanism of another, and a work of art designed in multi-coloured wools, and having reference to the parable of the fig tree.

"Make it all over to 'im," said Mrs. West; "all what I, the undersigned, may die possessed of. I won't 'ave 'is stuck-up sister touch a stick of it. 'E's bin a good boy to me, Bert 'as. It'll be a 'ome for 'im.

"It's bin a near touch for me, what, Doctor?" pursued the testator.

"Pooh!" murmured the doctor, still writing rapidly, "you're not going this time."

"I know that," said the woman. "Not as I take any notice what _you_ say--you an' your soft soap. But I know in _meself_ as it's all right this time. On'y you never know what's gointer 'appen with the next attack, do you, now? And it'll be a 'ome for the boy. 'E's gettin' good money at the dye works now. 'E'll be all right if 'e's got a 'ome. You ain't puttin' it so's _she_ can touch a share, I 'ope, Doctor?"

"Who's she?"

"'Er what I spoke about--what calls 'erself my daughter. 'Er what's married into the perlice. 'Er what's ashamed of 'er own father!"

"I am putting it," explained the doctor, "so that you leave all of which you may die possessed to your son Albert. It's quite definite. You may sign now. This gentleman and myself will witness your signature."

"Lift me up, then," said Mrs. West.

She signed her name in a shaky but accomplished hand. "Be careful, young man," she admonished me, when my turn arrived.

All the formalities being concluded, Mrs. West sank back upon her pillow with a grunt of contentment. "It'll be a 'ome for the boy," she said. "And if 'is father _should_ turn up----"

"Has he got a father, then?" questioned the doctor, rather, I think, with the object of displaying an intelligent interest than from any genuine curiosity. You _are_ apt to lose your genuine curiosity when this sort of confidence is thrust upon you ten times daily.

"Got a father!" echoed Mrs. West, with evident amazement at the doctor's ignorance. "Ain't you 'eard, then?"

"Heard what?" demanded Dr. Brink.

"About my 'usband. The Midland Malt Comp'ny, you know!'

"Well, really now," replied the doctor, looking painfully confused, "upon my word, I _don't_ know."

"You must go about your business in a very funny way, then," reflected Mrs. West. "It's bin the talk o' Limus. 'E done 'em in for eight 'undred quid--'im an' another man."

"Done 'em in!" repeated the doctor. "Who? What?"

"The Midland Malt Company, same's I told you," expounded Mrs. West. "'E was night watchman, Mr. West was--'im an' another man--an' they took eight 'undred quid. 'E got away with 'arf of it, too. The perlice 'as bin investigatin' ever since."

Dr. Brink still looked a little puzzled. "You mean, in fact--do I understand that your husband stole eight hundred pounds?"

"Mr. West an' another man--yes," responded the woman, quite without feeling. "'Im an' 'is mate, they done in eight 'undred. On'y 'is mate, I'm sorry to say, 'e never got 'is share. The perlice got that. They got 'im, too. But they never got Mr. West."

"How did he escape?" demanded the doctor. And I held my breath. I wondered that the desperado's wife could talk so quietly. "How did he escape?" asked the doctor again.

"Mr. West?" queried the woman. "Oh," she said, with great simplicity, "'e went away.

"It was like this yere," said Mr. West's wife:--

"I was asleep, you see--in this bed yere, an' it was dark--all in the middle o' the night, you see. An' he struck a match an' he woke me up.

"'What's that?' I says, with a start like, an' when I see it was Mr. West I lay down again.

"'Ann,' 'e says, 'wake up. I've got some money 'ere,' 'e says. An' 'e lights a bit o' candle, an' I sits up, an' there on the table--that very table--there was a 'eap o' sovereigns what 'e'd rolled out of a sack. 'I've took these from the company. I'm goin' away,' says Mr. West.

"An' 'e gets into 'is Sunday shoot an' 'e shaves 'isself. An' 'e puts a lot o' the money more'n four 'undred pounds--into a little brown bag, an' 'e puts the rest in the coal cupboard. 'The perlice 'll come for that in the mornin',' says Mr. West. 'Let 'em find it there. An' you,' 'e says, 'you don't know nothink.'

"'An' what about you?' I says.

"'I'm goin' away,' says Mr. West. 'I'll write you when it's safe. Give my love to Rosa.'

"Rosa is my sister's niece, what 'e'd always carried on with--innocent like, in a jokin' sort o' way, if you understand me.

"'An' remember,' says Mr. West to me again, 'as you don't know a thing. They'll find the money in the coal 'ole, so don't you try to stop 'em.'

"An' then Mr. West, 'e kissed me same as usual, an' 'e blowed out the light. An' 'e went away."

* * * * *

"I suppose that the police turned up all right?" suggested Dr. Brink, when he had duly considered this simple story.

"The perlice," responded the woman, who had talked more than was good for her, and now looked paler, if possible, than before--"the perlice was very rude an' rough to me. They found the money in the coal cupboard, an' they took it away. But that didn't satisfy them. It on'y seemed to aggerivate them. An' night after night they come round 'ere, an' they was very rough to me. But they ain't got 'old o' Mr. West.

"'E's bin gone a year now, all but five weeks. An' they ain't caught 'im, an' they never will. I believe it would please that daughter o' mine--the wicked, vain, unfeelin' thing--if they _was_ to catch 'm.

"Mr. West, 'e 'aven't wrote me, nor I don't suppose 'e will. Mr. West is a careful sort. I _did_ send round the other day to a place where I thought there might be noos o' 'im; but there wasn't no noos o' 'im.

"Not that I worry meself about _'im_, if you understand. Mr. West would be all right, wherever it was. 'E's the sort that kin take care o' 'isself, 'e is. It's the boy--young Bert--I'm thinkin' of. Mr. West would be very cut up, 'e would, to think as Bert should come to any 'arm."

This reference to the nice paternal feeling of Mr. West affected us both strangely.

"But," continued Mrs. West, "I'm leavin' 'im the 'ome, at all events. Bert can't come to no pertickler 'arm so long's 'e's got a home.

"Mr. West 'isself was always a rare one for 'ome. The boy takes arter 'im."

*XVIII*

*THREE DIALOGUES*

The Mission of the Healer is a fine and a noble one, and I have often confided this original thought to my friend Doctor Brink, who declares that such confidences are helpful to him. And I now desire to record, without comment, three dialogues which drifted in to me at intervals one Sunday, when I was sitting on the doctor's gas-stove.

I.--MORNING

VISITOR: And 'e's ser fretful, Doctor, and 'is breathin's ser sick, and 'e don't appear to 'ave no appetite.

DOCTOR: Bring him to the light here. I just want--ah!

VISITOR: I give 'im a soothin' powder, too, last night--a large one. I bought it at the chimmis. They're supposed to be very good, them Parker's soothin' powders.

DOCTOR: I'm afraid that this is rather serious.

VISITOR: Down't you think they're very good, Doctor--them Parker's soothin' powders?

DOCTOR: I'm afraid there's not much doubt that this child has got diphtheria.

VISITOR: I bin very careful with 'im, Doctor. I give 'im a soothin' powder.

DOCTOR: Where do you live?

VISITOR: Fourteen Mulberry Street. It's next to the oil shop.

DOCTOR: How many rooms?

VISITOR: Was you gointer send 'im away then, Doctor? Oh, down't send 'im away?

DOCTOR: How many rooms?

VISITOR: Down't send 'im away, Doctor!

DOCTOR: I haven't said anything about sending him away--so far. Answer my questions like a sensible woman. You want him to get better, don't you?

VISITOR: I down't want you to send 'im away. I kin look arter 'im meself. There's on'y six of us, an' we got three rooms, an the other two boys kin sleep with me mother in the kitchen? Down't send him away!

DOCTOR: I'm very much afraid, Mrs.--ah--Mrs. Cooper, that it doesn't quite rest with me whether the boy is taken away or not. He's got diphtheria, that's certain, and I'm legally compelled to report the case. It is for the Public Health people to decide whether they take the boy or leave him. _I_ think you ought to be glad to let him go. He'll be well looked after.

VISITOR: Down't send 'im away!

DOCTOR: But why not, Mrs. Cooper? You want him to get better, don't you. You can't possibly nurse him yourself. You have the other children to attend to, and the home to take care of, and your husband----

VISITOR: Yus, an' there's me 'usband, too. 'E won't let you take 'im.

DOCTOR (_very patiently_): I've said before that I don't want to take him. It is the health officers who will take him if he's taken at all. My duty is done when I've reported the case.

VISITOR: What you wanter tell 'em for? What you wanter put the little chap away for?

DOCTOR: I'm telling them because I shall be punished if I don't. But I think it's very foolish and ungrateful of you to make this fuss. I only want to do the best I can for you and your baby. You want him to get better, don't you?

VISITOR: Down't send 'im away! Let me send me 'usband round to talk to you. Never mind about the punishment an' that, Doctor. My 'usband won't tell nobody. I'd like you to talk to me 'usband, Doctor.

DOCTOR: And I would rather like to talk to your husband. I can explain things more clearly to him, perhaps. Send him round at once.

VISITOR: Very likely it ain't the diftheria at all, Doctor. I'm sure me 'usband won't 'ave 'im took away.

II.--MIDDAY

DOCTOR: And what can I do for _you_?

VISITOR: I come round yere to talk about the boy Cooper. I'm 'is father. The child ain't to be took away, see? 'E ain't got diftheria at all.

DOCTOR: I'm sorry to have to differ from your diagnosis, Mr. Cooper, but the child _has_ got diphtheria. And I'm very much afraid that he's got to be taken away. It doesn't rest with me; I merely have to report----

VISITOR: If you wanter know the troof, Doctor, we've called in Doctor Popham. See? And Doctor Popham don't believe as the boy 'ave got diftheria at all. And 'e's sent the boy some physic. And 'e's gointer 'ave another look at 'im termorrer. And we've took the case outer your 'ands, see? So you needn't trouble to send in no reports to nobody. That child ain't bein' took away. You needn't trouble to interfere no more. The boy is stoppin' 'ome, along of 'is lawful parents. See?

DOCTOR: Did Doctor Popham examine the child's throat?

VISITOR: What's that gotter do with you? The boy ain't got diftheria. And 'e ain't gotter be moved.

DOCTOR: It has got this much to do with me--that I _did_ examine the child's throat. I'm not suggesting to you that I think he has diphtheria; I'm telling you that he jolly well _has_ got it. I _know_. When you go home you can see for yourself. Look in the little chap's throat and you will see a round white patch about the size of a sixpence. That, my friend, is diphtheria.

VISITOR: The boy ain't gotter be moved.

DOCTOR: That's not my business. Somebody else will decide about that. But I don't suppose he'll let you murder the child, even if you are its father.

VISITOR: 'E's my child, ain't 'e? And 'e's in my 'ouse. Nobody ain't gointer take my child away without I tells 'em to. See?

DOCTOR: It isn't only this one child we have to consider. What about your two other children? What about all the other children in the house?

VISITOR: Let other people look after their own, same's what I'm willing to do fur _my_ own. A man's got a right to 'is own children and nobody ain't gointer touch no child o' mine without I lets 'em.

DOCTOR: You stand on your rights, do you?

VISITOR: That's it. All the corpuscular 'ealth orficers in England ain't gointer take my lawful child away from me. See?

DOCTOR: I don't know whether it's ever been mentioned to you before, but you are rather by way of being a Social Problem.

VISITOR: It ain't your place to be saucy. I know me rights, and neither you nor any man is going to tell me as it's right to rob a person of their lawful child. And I don't want none of your sneers nor I don't want none of your nicknames. You're out o' this job, see? I've called in Dr. Popham. You and yere Latin nicknames!

DOCTOR: I can put it into English if you like. You're a pudding-headed fool. Good-day.

VISITOR: What about my child? Are you gointer promise to leave 'im alone?

DOCTOR: Of course I am. You can kill your whole family for all I care. I've sent in my report to the authorities, and there's an end of it. Good-day.

VISITOR: You've reported, 'ave ye? Oh, very well, then. We'll see. That boy ain't gotter be shifted. See?

DOCTOR: All right. Get out.

VISITOR: We've called in Dr. Popham, and 'e's weighed _you_ up. See? The boy ain't got diftheria at all. Nor 'e ain't gotter be shifted.

DOCTOR (_in simpler terms_): May Heaven administer to your requirements. Get out.

III.--EVENING

VISITOR: If you please, Doctor, I come round ere about the boy Cooper. I'm the father, sir. We want you to come round and see 'im. 'E's very bad, sir.

DOCTOR: Made rather fools of yourselves, haven't you?

VISITOR: We ain't give 'im none o' Dr. Popham's medsun, sir; not a drop. We want you to come round, Doctor. 'E's very bad.

DOCTOR: All right. I'll be round in half an hour.

VISITOR: Can't you come round at once, sir? 'E's very bad. 'E don't seem able to swaller, sir, and there's lumps in 'is neck. And the man from the 'ealth orfice ain't ser much as bin near us.

DOCTOR: That's your fault. I told him you were going to make a fuss, and I suppose he's busy and has put it off until to-morrow.

VISITOR: Can't you make 'im come to-night, Doctor? The boy is very bad. And one of the other boys is sneezin', and the other one 'e says there is a funny feelin' in 'is thumb. Can't you come at once, Doctor?

DOCTOR: Wait one minute, then, till I've written these prescriptions.

VISITOR: Go' bless you, Doctor. We ain't ser much as looked at Dr. Popham's physic. We ain't, straight. The boy is very bad. 'Is face 'as gone a very funny colour. 'Ot this evenin', ain't it? Much obliged to you, I'm sure, Doctor. Think you kin put it right? The boy _is_ bad. It's a 'ot evenin'. What they playin' at in the 'ealth orfice, Doctor--leavin' a man's child to die?

*XIX*

*CURING THE CURER*

"Yes, Aunt Isobel," said James--"I quite agree with you. The silly old duffer ought certainly to take an anti-something. He's as down-hearted and high-tempered as possible."

"Certainly," quoth Aunt Isobel--a thin and very definite lady, with a wire-woven manner--"_something_ ought to be done. Your father is looking very unwell. I attribute his condition to overwork and undernourishment."

"Nourishment's all right, Aunt Isobel," protested James. "He eats enough to fill an ox."

Aunt Isobel winced and raised an arresting forearm, as if to ward off some physical menace. "You really do employ the most trying phrases, my dear," she said. "Personally, I am a stronger believer in Anti-Nervo. Two tablets, three times a day--one before each meal, and one after. It is really a quite remarkable remedy. Poverty of blood is one of a great number of complaints for which the makers themselves especially recommend it. Poverty of blood is, of course, your father's chief trouble. He is much under-nourished."

"You ought to see him walk into a steak," said James.

"If," pursued Aunt Isobel, "he really does receive a proper quantity of food, then I'm inclined to fear that it is food of poor quality. If, indeed, both the quality _and_ quantity of his food should prove to be adequate, I can only suppose that he is suffering from insufficient sleep. Or is it brain fag? It _might_, of course, be liver or weak heart. Or some secret trouble, perhaps. Anti-Nervo is strongly recommended for all these complaints. He must certainly be made to take some Anti-Nervo."

"He must certainly be made to do something violent," admitted James. "He's certainly got hold of a most phenomenal hump."

Aunt Isobel was again forced to push off imaginary assailants. "Where _did_ you learn, my dear," she inquired, in a poignant sort of tone, "to use such fearfully emancipated expressions? Another remedy in which I have the greatest possible faith is Sal-Toxine. Do you know Sal-Toxine? But, of course, you don't; it is quite a novel remedy. I myself have only--why, here is your dear father."

And here, indeed, that gentleman was; wearing the gloomiest possible air, and a very dirty collar. He blundered heavily through the door, and cast himself heavily upon a chair. Having disembarrassed himself of a hat and a stethoscope, he delivered an original and entertaining monologue.

"May my bones burn in hell," he said, "if I conduct this profitable enterprise for another damned minute. I've got the largest and dirtiest and sickest collection of common drunks in London. I've got all the Phthisics from here to Limehouse. Every pre-ordained son of a witch of a bricklayer within hail of the parish has broken his bandy leg, and called me in to set it. Every single woman that ever worked in a jam factory is 'expecting' to-morrow, and there isn't a pint of milk or a handful of coal between six of 'em. I haven't slept a wink since yesterday morning, or sat down since last night. I haven't had a wash since Monday, or a drink since last April. I'm fed up."

This speech was listened to by James with polite attention, but perfect calm. Aunt Isobel, upon the other hand, was unable to suppress a loudish shudder.

"Hullo!" cried Dr. Brink, with evident surprise. "Here's Isobel. How are you, Isobel? Hear you've changed parsons again. What a rabid young flirt you are."

"We have been discussing the subject of your deplorable poverty of health," responded the flirt. "We have decided that you must be made to take a tonic--Anti-Nervo, say, or Sal-Toxine. We have the very greatest faith in them, especially Anti-Nervo. You take two tablets, three times daily: one before and one after each meal."

"Can't I have one in my bath, as well?" asked Doctor Brink.

"The directions," responded Aunt Isobel, "are very explicit. Two tablets three times daily--one before and one after each meal. It is a wonderful remedy. My own doctor at Chiswick--a _really_ clever man--is perfectly charmed with it. He has analysed it several times. He has the most perfectly refined voice that I have ever met with in a man. _He_ takes his profession quite seriously. He is an M.B. of Edinburgh, and a surgeon as well, and they say he is quite the youngest man who has ever attempted the two things at once. He plays the banjo most delightfully."

"Good at cracking nuts, too, isn't he?" suggested the doctor in a tired voice.

"Of course," continued Aunt Isobel, "we don't want to insist upon Anti-Nervo if there is any other genuine tonic in which you have more faith. I know many extremely intelligent people who simply swear by Sal-Toxine; and then, of course, there is Pherantidote. I have heard that Our Queen uses that. What is your opinion of Pherantidote?"

"Well," responded Doctor Brink, "it's a dam small bottle for one-and-eight. Do you really think I'm seedy, Isobel?"

"We are both agreed that you require----"

"What I require, old girl," said Doctor Brink, rising slowly to his feet, "is a job in the City. I want to try a new system of exploitation. My game's too deadly simple: I'm tired of pumping aniline dye and water into hungry bellies for a thousand a year. I'm tired of the filthy working-man--tired of seeing him so close. He smells of beer, and his hands are so cold. His eyes are awful, and they give me nightmares.... I want to kill the cad more profitably. I want to start a trouser-button works, or some chutney mills, or something. I can't stand it any longer--this deadly boredom: this watching the dumb beast die."

"Well," said Aunt Isobel, "I can seriously recommend you to pin your faith to Anti-Nervo. You take two tablets three times daily."

*XX*

*MILK*

I have long been interested in Mr. Binney. He is the only milkman I have ever seen who looks any different from other milkmen. His very voice is different; for, whereas other milkmen are sudden and shrill of utterance, Mr. Binney has cultivated a profounder, more scholarly method, and he has a voice of deep bass quality.

I have sat at an upper window of the Bovingdon Street dispensary and watched this tradesman closely when he has been conducting milkcans to the houses opposite. I have observed his slow, deliberate tread, so thoroughly in keeping with the fulness of his girth and stature. I have noted his extensive face, so plain and wise and red. I have remarked his drooping eyelid and crimson neck, his scant white locks, and row upon row of chins--features insignificant in themselves, but, when combined, imparting to his countenance a strangely judicial character.

This effect of power (such is the individuality of the man) receives additional strength even from the trivial business of his calling. Mr. Binney, when handing a milkcan through some parlour window, looks less like a milkman than any other imaginable human thing. He handles the pewter vessel gingerly, daintily, as if it were a precious casket, and a sort of trembling eagerness is sometimes to be observed in his demeanour.

There is nothing commercial in Mr. Binney's manner.

He does not seem to sell his milk. He bestows it.

To see him gingerly proffering his battered cans is to see, as it were, an earthly Providence--a conscious benefactor, distributing Nature's bounty to her helpless children.

He accepts the copper tokens which reward his ministrations with an air of gracious calm as far removed from any taint of barter as are his actions. You might suppose him to be a priest receiving offertory.

The same spirit of gentleness distinguishes his method of proclamation. Mr. Binney does not use the cry of "Milk-ho!" which his fellow-milkmen favour. I have already stated that the tone of his voice is deeper and more profound than that which they employ. Pushing his little handcart before him, he causes his utterance to correspond with his gait--which is majestic.

"Milk! milk! _milk!_" he exclaims--or, rather, utters--in a tone which is at once appealing and authoritative.

Mr. Binney so interested me that I reported him to the doctor. "What is the mystery of this unusual milkman?" I said. But the doctor only smiled.

A day or two afterwards, however, when I was seated in anxious expectancy at the upper window, Doctor Brink came up and brought me my answer. "Waiting for your milkman?" he said.... "Ha! I've just been sent for to him. Come round with me now and see him in his little home.... I shall want some help."

As we walked along, the doctor carried his explanation a little further. "We shall have to take his clothes off," he observed. "If once we can get him undressed he's fixed for a week, because he cannot hold things steady, and he's fat, and his trousers are tight, and--oh, here we are."

A perfectly quiet and collected old lady received us on the doorstep. "He's cut 'isself this time," she announced; "fell agin the railings by the church. But he's very jolly and 'igh-sperited, Doctor, and I'm sure the sewing won't be any trouble to you. Is this your assistant?"

The doctor nodded. "Where is he?" he demanded.

"In 'is own old armchair," replied the woman. "Per'aps you'll get 'is clothes off, Doctor. It's on'y the trousers that matter. They'll puzzle 'im till Sunday _this_ time, they will."

We found Mr. Binney in the situation reported. He received us with cheers and a poetic outburst.

"Dr. Brink,
Full of chink,
I _don't_ think"--

he exclaimed; adding a personal couplet--

"I'm old Binney,
Not so damned skinny."

"Doctor," he continued, "'ave a drink?" Upon the doctor declining this offer, Mr. Binney chuckled loudly and extended--or tried to extend--an arm. "Feel me pulse, old buck," he shouted. "Let's see if you know yere business. If ye can feel old Binney's pulse I'll give you 'arf a dollar, 'cause I'll be damned if ole Binney kin feel it 'isself."

"Loss of feeling, eh?" said the doctor, in his suavest tone. "Ha! you'll feel _this_ all right." With which words he inserted a surgical needle in Mr. Binney's cheek.

"Oy!" cried Mr. Binney, "keep orf the grarse!"

But the doctor continued to ply his busy thread, and Mr. Binney, being temporarily incapable of performing any but the most elementary movements, was constrained to endure this treatment. When the doctor had completed it--Mr. Binney having several times admonished him to "keep orf the grarse!"--and we had removed that garment which exerted such a powerful influence upon the question of Mr. Binney's freedom, that gentleman once more expressed himself in verse, saying--

"Doctor Brink,
Tip 'im the wink,
Give 'im a drink,
I don't think.
Put 'im in clink,
Tiddely-wink,
Tiddely-wink,
Give 'im a drink.
Give 'im a----

Good-bye, old pal, an' come agin termorrer."

We went again upon the morrow, and Binney expressed himself as being glad to see us.

"I dunno 'oo your soft-lookin' friend may be," said Mr. Binney, "but I know 'oo you are, Doctor, an' you done me a power o' good, an' I'm grateful to you. Gettin' on fine, I am."

"That's _right_," exclaimed the doctor, looking as if he believed it. "Keeping off the drink, of course, as I advised you?"

"Keepin' orf tadpoles!" cried Mr. Binney, with disdain. "I've 'ad five brandies auready this mornin', an' not you, nor the ole woman, nor the King 'isself would stop me. I know the cure for _my_ complaint."

The next morning Dr. Brink paid his third and last visit to this patient. The patient willed it so, having reconstructed the frame of his mind.

"Look 'ere, me man," said Mr. Binney upon this occasion, "I'm grateful for what you done for me, and so on. See? But I've 'ad enough of you. See? I'm very much obliged to you, and all that; but I don't want you. I'm better now. I'm all right now. _I_ don't want no blinkin' doctors. See what I mean? You're a clever fellow, no doubt, and I quite agree, and you 'ave my thanks. But you can 'op it. See?"

Dr. Brink accordingly hopped it. But that his treatment had not been wholly useless was testified by Mrs. Binney, who, when calling in that evening for some more dark brown, announced, with a sigh of satisfaction, that "'is trembles" was as bad as ever. "It'll be another week 'fore ever 'e can put them trousers on," she cried triumphantly.

That was a week ago. This very day has witnessed Mr. Binney's return to public life--properly habited and full of dignity.

I have been watching him, as, with his finest and most benevolent air, he bestowed a can of wholesome, grass-fed nourishment upon one of the numerous Barnstein children, who live opposite.

His hands, I thought, showed signs of more than usual eagerness as he hooked a trembling finger round the handle of the can. There was an expression as of reverence upon his face, and he yielded the liquid into Miss Barnstein's keeping with a hesitancy, as of one loth to part from his treasure.

His lips moved, and I could almost have believed that he had breathed a blessing--a Latin blessing. Then I heard him speak--in deep, impressive tones he spake.

"Be careful with it, missy," he said. "If you spill some, what'll mother say? Now do be careful!"

With that he returned to his little hand-cart and pushed it slowly up the road, walking with a measured gait and uttering, in rich and reverent tones, his exhortation:--

"Milk! Milk! _Milk!_"

*XXI*

*TWO PATIENTS*

My friend, Mrs. Isadore Muntz, has been very ill, poor girl.

She is always rather ill, of course; there would not otherwise be much point in being married to so rich and elderly a man as Isadore. But the illness which I now have to record was a real one--a horrid one. It involved the use of a surgeon's knife. It involved the complete collapse of Isadore, whose world-famous bill-brokery was carried on without the stimulus of his presence for nearly fourteen days.

For more than seven days of that period, it is said, he kept to his chamber, and cried without ceasing. And he admitted, between his sobs, to my aunt Elizabeth, that Sir Marmaduke Wilkins's fee for the operation had amounted to a hundred guineas, besides an additional charge of twenty guineas for the anaesthetist.

But Mrs. Isadore--Constance she used to let me call her--is getting slowly better. Because she used to let me call her Constance and because--because I am sorry for her, I went to the "At Home," which was held at West Hampstead, in order--I suppose--to celebrate the result of Sir Marmaduke Wilkins's efforts.

Less than eight weeks having elapsed since the occasion of Sir Marmaduke's skilful treatment, she was still forbidden to be very active. So she lay on a sofa, embowered with blossoms, and we rustled up and cried over her. Isadore, the faithful creature, stood fast by her right hand. This was perhaps responsible for Constance's notable depression.

It is also possible that she thought of all those low-necked gowns hanging useless on their pegs upstairs.

"You don't mean to say _you've_ come!" Constance exclaimed when I took her hand; "I thought you hated Hampstead."

"And so I do," replied the tactful guest. "But I heard a funny story yesterday, and----"

"That's all right," she said. "I'm sick of funny stories. Tell me something tragic. Haven't you fallen in love lately?"

"Yes," I said, "and I've bought another dog."

"Tell me about the dog," she said.

So I described the dog for nearly twenty minutes, much to the enragement of many mourners, who were waiting for an audience. When the laws of decency compelled me to retreat, she was so kind as to ask me to convey a form of greeting to the new dog.

"I will come and see him one day," she said. "But they won't let me move for weeks yet, and when they do I've got to go to Bournemouth and be wheeled about in a bath-chair. Isn't it horrid?"