.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 55590
   :PG.Title: Jim Mortimer
   :PG.Released: 2017-09-20
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Warren Bell
   :MARCREL.ill: Gordon Browne
   :DC.Title: Jim Mortimer
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1908
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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JIM MORTIMER
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      JIM MORTIMER

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      BY

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      WARREN BELL

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      AUTHOR OF "J. O. JONES," "TALES OF GREYHOUSE," ETC.

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      *WITH SIXTEEN FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
      BY GORDON BROWNE*

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      LONDON
      ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK
      1908

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   BY THE SAME AUTHOR

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   \J. \O. JONES
   And How He Earned His Living
   With 12 page Illustrations
   By GORDON BROWNE, R.I.
   Large Crown 8vo, Cloth
   Price 3/6

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   TALES OF GREYHOUSE
   With 16 page Illustrations
   By T. M. R. WHITWELL
   Large Crown 8vo, Cloth
   Price 3/6

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   PUBLISHED BY
   \A. & \C. BLACK, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.

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   CONTENTS

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CHAPTER

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I.  `Introducing Jim`_
II.  `Over the Telephone`_
III.  `Koko Reports Progress`_
IV.  `A Handmaid to Mercury`_
V.  `Jim Rejoices`_
VI.  `The Doctor Keeps His Word`_
VII.  `Sir Savile's Offer`_
VIII.  `Number Nine`_
IX.  `In the Pillory`_
X.  `At the Surgery`_
XI.  `Mr Maybury's Resolve`_
XII.  `Koko's Word`_
XIII.  `"Harris & Father"`_
XIV.  `A Piece of News`_
XV.  `Koko is Thanked`_
XVI.  `Jim's Patients`_
XVII.  `In the Crescent`_
XVIII.  `Master Harris is Shown Out`_
XIX.  `Hard Pressed`_
XX.  `After the Play`_
XXI.  `A Matter of Wages`_
XXII.  `The Warning`_
XXIII.  `The Ivory Fan`_
XXIV.  `Jim Catches a Train`_
XXV.  `In the Silent House`_
XXVI.  `The Vultures`_
XXVII.  `The Home-Coming`_
XXVIII.  `A Delicate Mission`_
XXIX.  `The Doctor Visits Mount Street`_
XXX.  `The Week Passes`_
XXXI.  `In which it is shown that the Bearded Man had made Another Mistake`_
XXXII.  `In which Two People set out upon a Journey`_





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.. _`INTRODUCING JIM`:

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   JIM MORTIMER.

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CHAPTER I.

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INTRODUCING JIM.

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People, unless they be star-gazers, do not walk
along, as a rule, with their faces turned towards the
sky; hence it was that the slender telephone wire
communicating between Dr Mortimer's private
residence, "Pangora," and the doctor's private
asylum, escaped the notice of all but a few who
fared along the eight miles of high road dividing
Threeways from Millingbourne, in the county of
Eastfolkshire.

And yet this slender wire, which showed up
against the blue sky much like a substantial
cobweb, was fraught with interest.  It was barely
300 yards in length, its installation had been a
comparatively cheap and simple undertaking, and
it had paid for itself scores of times over.  Messages
of life and death passed across it constantly;
instructions in cases of emergency, tingling over
the white line of road, saved the time that would
otherwise have been occupied in walking the 300
yards--for doctors do not often run; reprimands
were roared across it, bulletins despatched by its
agency, dietary altered, medicine prescribed.

The sunshine was coquetting with the little wire,
and the great oaks and elms were surveying the
flirtation with affected indifference, one bright
September morning, when Mr James Mortimer, the
Doctor's grandson, who was known among his
hospital intimates as the "Long 'Un," having
breakfasted in trousers, shirt, and dressing-gown, rose
from the table and ambled out into the surgery--for,
in addition to an asylum, the doctor had a lucrative
practice in that part of Eastfolkshire.  The waiting-room
adjoining the surgery was empty, save for one
small, pale boy.

Although James was on holiday, he occasionally
acted as deputy when his grandfather and the latter's
assistant were not at hand.  And James was quite
competent to do so, for he was a fully qualified surgeon.

"Well, Johnny, been eating green pears?"

The urchin looked guilty.

"Y-yes, sir."

"Let's see your tongue--ah! hum!" and the Long
'Un affected a serious expression as he mixed a stiffish
dose of black draught.  The urchin pulled a very wry
face as he tasted the dose, and stopped for breath
half-way through it.

"Every drop!" commanded the Long 'Un.

The urchin obeyed him, and then, bursting into
tears, was pleased to be violently sick.

"You'll feel better now--and here's a penny for
you," quoth Jim Mortimer, in a truly paternal way
for four-and-twenty.

But the urchin renewed his howling.

"I--I came up for me mother's medicine," he
quavered; "I--she--she didn't know I'd been eatin'
pears."

The Long 'Un threw back his head and burst into
a roar of laughter.

"By George! what a shot!  Why, Johnny, I
thought you'd come to be doctored.  Well, here's
sixpence for you.  Call again for the medicine--I
don't know anything about it."

The urchin took the sixpence with a smile showing
through his tears, and with a final sniff shuffled out of
the waiting-room.

The Long 'Un still looking highly amused,
approached the telephone and rang up the asylum.

"Ay, ay, sir!" came the response.

"That you, Hughes?"

"Yes, Mr James."

"How's the Zoo?"

"All quiet except the major.  We've had to put
him in the padded room."

"The major again!"

"Yes, sir; broke out at breakfast.  It took three of
us to get him down.  He very near pulled Smith's
windpipe out."

"He doesn't like Smith, does he?"

"'Ates him, sir."

"I think I'll come across and have a look at him,"
said Jim.  "I have an idea I can handle the old chap."

"Glad to see you, Mr James," replied the head
attendant; "you're going back to town to-day, aren't
you, sir?"

"Yes--back to-day, worse luck."

Without bothering to alter his garb, Jim Mortimer,
his gay dressing-gown sweeping the ground, strolled
out into the garden and sauntered along the gravel
path which led to the high road.  As he went he
pulled lazily at his pipe.  Both of the gardeners
touched their hats and smiled a welcome as he
passed; the Long 'Un was a favourite all over the
settlement.

Certainly he looked a quaint figure as he emerged
into the high road--a quaint but not unpleasing one.
Long he was--six feet, and four inches over that--but
square-shouldered and supple.  His carriage was
easy, but not of a military description, and he stooped
slightly, with the stoop of the rowing-man rather
than that of one engaged in sedentary work or of one
who has overgrown his strength.  He looked, as he
strolled across the road, like a long, lean hound,
trained to the hour, hard as steel and tough as
hickory.  His face was well cut, with rather sleepy
eyes and a certain gentleness about the corners of the
mouth that had caused his school-fellows to regard
him as somewhat of a "soft"--until he hit them.
His hair was clipped short and well brushed, and his
complexion was pink with health and the application
of cold water.

As Jim was moving across the road in his
indolently graceful way, a carriage and pair
approached at a quick trot.  At a word from one of
its occupants the coachman pulled up close by the
young surgeon.

"Can you tell me, please, if this is Dr Mortimer's?"
inquired a stern-faced elderly lady, whose rich mantle
and handsome equipage betokened her to be a person
of means and possibly of position.

"Yes, all of this," replied Jim, with a
comprehensive wave of his hand which took in each
side of the road, "is Dr Mortimer's."  A pretty
girl was sitting by his questioner's side, and the
fact was not lost upon Jim.  "The Doctor is out,"
he added, "but I am a medical man.  Can I be of
service to you?"

The lady surveyed Jim's dressing-gown with evident
disapproval, but Jim glanced unconcernedly at the
telephone wire overhead.  Meanwhile the pretty girl
gazed straight before her at the blue smoke curling
over the housetops in Threeways, having decided that
this very tall man in such unorthodox attire was
quite good-looking.

"I prefer to see Dr Mortimer himself.  Do you
think he will be in soon?"

"He may be in at any moment," said Jim; "that
is the way to his house," he added to the coachman,
"through those gates."

"I am obliged to you."

The lady sat back without troubling to bestow
another glance on Jim, but she observed to her
companion as they entered the drive that the
extraordinary young fellow in the dressing-gown was
probably one of the madmen.

Jim Mortimer, sauntering on, at length reached
the asylum, a cheerful-looking red-brick-building,
standing healthily high.  He found Hughes in the
patients' common room--a spacious and airy
apartment provided with a piano, a bagatelle board, and
other requisites for indoor pastimes.

As Jim was chatting with the head attendant, a
grey-haired, round-shouldered man of some sixty
summers came up to them.

"Take care, Mr James!" he exclaimed, "he's just
behind you!  Oh, if I had a gun now!"

Jim knew that Mr Richards--the speaker--had
"alligators" on his bad days.

"No, he's gone under the table," replied Jim.
"See him?  Here, lend me a cue, and I'll kill him."

"That's right," said the poor fellow; "kill him,
and I'll leave you all my money.  He sat on the
end of my bed last night--he won't let me alone.
Kill him now he's not looking."

Jim seized the cue and slashed about under the
table with it.

"There--I've done it.  I've cut his head off."

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" cried Mr Richards,
bursting into tears.  "You shall have every penny
of my money."

They left him crying quietly for joy.  In a corner
of the room a saturnine-looking gentleman was
standing stock still with his eyes closed.

"Hullo!" said Jim, "I've not seen this one before.
Who is he?"

"A new patient--a clergyman," replied Hughes;
"he thinks he's dead.  Comes to life for his meals,
though."

Jim laughed--the careless laugh of thoughtless
youth--but the next moment his face became grave.
He felt very much for these afflicted souls, and they
seemed to know it, for in their half-witted way they
loved "Mr James."

After passing through several corridors, Jim and
Hughes arrived at a room that was provided with
a thick door in which was a grille of the old-fashioned
kind.  Within could be seen a red-faced, burly man,
his clothing much disarranged, and his eyes wildly
gleaming.

A stalwart attendant, with a bandage round his
neck, was standing by, watching the occupant of the
padded room through the little bars of the grille.

"I'll go in and have a chat with him," said Jim.

"You'd better not, sir," returned Hughes; "you'll
take your life in your hands if you do."

"Nonsense!" cried Jim.  "Open the door, Smith!"

The attendant Smith--he who had been so unfortunate
as to earn the major's ill-will--shot back
the bolt, and, as Jim stepped into the cell, made
haste to secure the door behind him.

The patient fixed a glare of bovine ferocity on his
caller as Jim advanced towards him.

"Morning, major!  Men pretty fit this morning?"

The major had been about to hurl himself at the
young fellow when Jim's words stirred an old memory
in his inflamed brain.

"What's that to you--who are you?" he growled.

"The officer commanding the expedition," rapped
out Jim.

The major's manner changed on the instant.

"The men are as well as can be expected, sir,
considering the beastly bad water.  Three more
down with enteric to-day."

"Dear--dear!" exclaimed Jim, "that's bad.  Well,
major, we must hope for the best--hope for the best.
And how are you yourself?"

"I think I've got a touch of the sun, sir," said the
major, "but I daresay it'll pass off.  I've been
feeling queer up here for several days now," he added,
touching his forehead.

"What you want, major," said Jim, "is a good
sound sleep.  You're looking overworked.  Now just
you lie down on your mattress yonder and have a
nap.  You've been doing very well lately, major, and
I shall mention you in my despatches."

The poor madman's face glowed with delight.

"I'm very much obliged to you, sir," he said, with
a world of gratitude in his voice.

"Well," said Jim, "I must be going on.  Now, do
as I say, and have some sleep."

"Thank you, sir, I think I will," said the major,
turning towards the mattress with touching docility.

Unfortunately, however, he happened to look round
at the grating, and in an instant his face and manner
changed.  Jim, following the lunatic's glance, saw
that the attendant Smith was still peering through
the bars.

"Get away from there--sharp!" he shouted, but
even as he spoke the major hurled himself against the
staunch oaken portal, and tore at it with his nails
as he yelled imprecations at the object of his hate.

Jim stepped swiftly forward and laid his hand
on the madman's shoulder.  The major turned like
an infuriated beast, his fingers twitching, and his
whole body convulsed with fury.

"I told you to get some sleep, major," said Jim,
imperiously, "and I expect my orders to be obeyed."

For a terrible moment the attendants held their
breath.  But Jim looked the major coolly in the
face.  Had he flinched the very slightest, the
madman would have been at his throat.

Still steadily eyeing the man, Jim pointed to the
mattress, and slowly, doubtfully, the major crept
towards it and lay down.  In two minutes he was
slumbering like a child.

Jim made sure that the major was fast asleep
before he softly approached the door.  Hughes let
him out and shot the bolt back into its socket with
all possible speed.

"The Doctor himself couldn't have done it better,
sir," said the head attendant, with heartfelt
admiration.  "Will you come and see the cricket now, sir?"
he added.

The milder of the asylum's inmates were trying
conclusions with bat and ball in an adjoining field.
Jim, on arriving at the scene of play, displaced one
of the attendants who was acting as wicket-keeper,
and took up his position behind the sticks.

The ball came swiftly, and the batsman--a
tall, broad-shouldered, ill-tempered-looking
fellow--snicked it into Jim's ready hands.

"*How's that?*" roared the Long 'Un; but the
attendant umpiring at the other end, being a
diplomat, gave it as "Not out."

As Jim trundled the ball back to the bowler, the
big batsman turned to him and testily observed,
"Please don't ask a question of that sort again.  I
don't like it."

"My dear man," said Mortimer, assuming that
he was addressing one of the most reasonable
inmates of the place, "if I catch you at the wicket,
you're out.  That's only fair."

But the batsman merely glared at him sulkily.

The next ball was a still more palpable catch at
the wicket, and was securely held.

"*How's that?*" inquired Jim, who didn't believe
in showing the white feather.  The words had hardly
left his lips when the batsman swung round and
aimed a terrific blow at his head--a blow that Jim,
by great agility, just managed to avoid.

"I told you," said the batsman, with dignity, "that
I did not like you saying that."

The ever-watchful Hughes hurried up.

"They're only satisfied by being clean bowled,
Mr James," he explained, and then proceeded to
administer a few words of rebuke to Jim's assailant,
who looked duly reproved.

The Long 'Un was meditating trying an over--with
the laudable object of getting the big batsman
out in a way he would quite understand--when a
page-boy came hurrying towards him with a message
to the effect that the Doctor wished to speak to him
at the telephone.

So Jim had perforce to postpone his over, and left
the field little dreaming that certain words which
would shortly come to him across the wire were
destined to affect his after-career in a remarkable
manner.





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.. _`OVER THE TELEPHONE`:

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   CHAPTER II.


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   OVER THE TELEPHONE.

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Old Dr Mortimer was, in every sense of the
word, a hard man.  Of massive build and handsome
countenance, upright and commanding in presence,
with a clear brain, a will of iron, and a resonant,
penetrating voice, his was at once a dominating and
notable personality.

Dr Mortimer's sphere of action, it is true, was
limited and local; but if, by the accident of circumstances,
his lot had been cast in a military or political
arena, he would assuredly have risen to a high place,
and possibly cut his initials on the rock of fame.

Beginning on nothing, the Doctor had fought his
way up to his present position by dint of sheer
perseverance and strength of head.  His indomitable
will had cleared away all obstacles, and now he was
seventy, hale and hearty, a man of wealth and a
county magnate.

But Dame Fortune, while she gives with one hand,
takes away with the other.  The Doctor was now
childless, and grandchildless, too, save for James.
This man of iron had brought weaklings into the
world; his wife had died before she was thirty, and
as his riches increased, his brood had one by one
faded into the grave.  So now, when James--the
only son of his eldest son--was in London, Dr
Mortimer sat at his mahogany every night all
alone--proud, rich, powerful, feared, obeyed on the
instant--but alone.

His assistant, M'Pherson, a trustworthy, middle-aged
Scotsman, of no especial brilliance, but
conscientious to a hair, lived at the asylum and took
most of his meals with the patients.

The Doctor had made his will years since, and
James was absolutely heir to all he had, save for
trifling legacies to his executors and such persons
as Hughes, his cook, coachman, and gardeners.
Every stick and stone was to be Jim's, and Jim
knew it.

But the Doctor was not satisfied with his
grandson.  Throughout Jim's five years at Rugby the
general tenor of his reports had been: "Has done
well on the whole, but might have done much better."  His
hospital career had been of a very similar character.
Jim, though of a lazy temperament, had,
nevertheless, won warm encomiums from great
surgeons for his skill with the knife.  Sir Savile
Smart, the renowned specialist in abdominal matters,
had written to Dr Mortimer--who was an old friend
of his--in high praise of Jim.  But there, as ever,
was the qualifying clause: "Your lad can do wonders
when he likes, which isn't always."  And then again
Jim was given to bursts of rowdyism, accounts of
which had trickled down to Threeways, where Jim
was regarded as a lovable, harum-scarum youth, who
would come into all the Doctor's money, "and so it
would be all right."  This meant that his wild ways
didn't matter--he would never have to earn his living.
Besides, he was only a youngster--he would sober
down in time.  He wouldn't go on fighting policemen
all his life--"and so it would be all right."

At dinner on the preceding evening the Doctor,
warmed by the generous grape, had been in an
affable, not to say confiding mood, and it would have
been well for Jim had this been their final conversation
ere he departed for town, for the Doctor was in
a high good-humour when they lit their bedroom
candles, and even went so far as to pat his
grandson on the back in a manner that was quite
affectionate.

Jim guessed that this amiable frame of mind would
decamp with the darkness, and his surmise proved
correct, for when he got to the telephone and took the
receiver off its peg, he knew by the sound of the
Doctor's voice that his grandfather was in an irritable
mood.

"Are you there, James?"

"Yes, sir."

"My carriage is waiting, and I must be off in a
minute or two, but I want to have a word with you
before you go."

"Shall I come across?" suggested Jim,

"No, that will waste time, and I haven't much to say."

It occurred to the Long 'Un that what little his
grandfather wished to say would not be of an
overwhelmingly genial character.

"I--ah--I received a bill this morning for a
plate-glass window you smashed in the Strand about six
weeks ago," began the Doctor; "I suppose you
recollect it?"

"Seem to remember something of it," replied Jim.

"That's good of you.  The bill is for twelve
pounds."

"Those big shop windows run into money,"
hazarded Jim.

"Somewhat superfluous information," snapped the
Doctor; "what I want to say is that I won't pay
any more of these bills--do you clearly understand?"

"I do," said the Long 'Un.

"And, moreover, I won't have any more of your
drunken frolics--it's high time you stopped all that
nonsense.  I should also advise you to drop the
acquaintance of that disreputable reporter friend of
yours--he seems to have a bad influence on you--Coke,
is that his name?"

Jim chuckled.

"What--Koko?  Most harmless man on earth!
Gets me out of scrapes, not into them!"

A fresh grievance now occurred to the Doctor.  "I
am not at all satisfied with the way you are working,"
he said.

"We dig in pretty hard at Matt's," replied Jim,
quite truthfully.

"Yes--but how about your degree?  I expect more
than a mere qualification from you."

"I'll read like a nigger this time, grandfather----"

"I'm glad to hear you say so," interrupted the
Doctor, in a mollified tone.

"Time and weather permitting," concluded Jim,
indiscreetly.

A short, ill-tempered cough sounded through the
telephone.  The Doctor was preparing his ultimatum;
Jim's addendum gave him his cue.

"I suppose 'time and weather' mean such dissolute
companions as Coker, or whatever his absurd name
is.  Well, now, attend to me, James.  I'm not
squeamish, but I expect you to pull up.  I won't
have any more playing the fool, either at the hospital
or down here.  For instance," he added, with growing
ire, "what on earth d'you mean by masquerading
about the high road in a dressing-gown?"

"I prefer ease to elegance," said Jim, cheekily.

"Well, sir," shouted the Doctor across the vibrating
wire, "I don't intend that my grandson shall be taken
for one of my patients!"

"Why--who took me for one of them?" demanded
Jim in amazement.

"The Countess of Lingfield."

"The who?" exclaimed Jim.

"The Countess of Lingfield.  She spoke to you
from her carriage half an hour ago."

"By George!" Jim broke into a mellow laugh.
"Was that a countess?  I say, grandfather, who was
the pretty girl with her?"

"Her daughter," replied the Doctor; "and it was
she who observed that you were probably one of the
'harmless variety'!"

"Indeed!" said the Long 'Un, not quite so heartily.

"Yes, sir," proceeded the Doctor, his ire rising
again, "and I was placed under the ignominious
necessity of having to admit that you were my
grandson."

"Awfully rough on you, grandpa."

The Doctor was evidently fuming at the other end
of the telephone.

"So," was his next utterance, "I shall be obliged if
you will behave more like a reasonable being in
future.  No more window-smashing, no more fighting
with policemen, and no more drinking.  I give
you fair warning that if you cut any more capers, I'll
stop supplies, and you'll have to get on as best you
can by yourself.  Good-bye!"

"Half a moment, sir!  I should like to see you
again before I go."

"I can't wait."

"Can't you spare a minute, sir?"

"No--I've wasted too much time already talking
to you.  Now remember!  Any more nonsense,
and you shan't handle another penny of mine.
Good-bye!"

Jim let the receiver go with a bang, and a few
moments later was flying across the road, his
dressing-gown waving gracefully behind him.  But
he was too late.  He arrived at "Pangora" just in
time to see the carriage vanishing through the gates
of the drive leading to a by-road on the opposite
side of the house.





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.. _`KOKO REPORTS PROGRESS`:

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   CHAPTER III.


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   KOKO REPORTS PROGRESS.

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Mr Mortimer was seated at breakfast.  His rooms
were situated in a terrace leading out of a fashionable
thoroughfare in Pimlico, but the terrace itself was
not at all fashionable, consisting, as it did, chiefly
of lodging-houses resorted to by medical students,
clerks, actors, and ladies' maids and men-servants
out of places.  The keeper of the house was a burly,
strident-voiced, strong-willed lady of forty, rough but
not unkindly, who always gave Jim what she liked
(as opposed to what *he* liked) for breakfast.

This morning--the morning after his arrival in
town from Eastfolkshire--his first meal was
composed of cold eggs-and-bacon and cold tea--not a
deliriously appetising repast, 'tis true; but then, if a
man is summoned to breakfast at nine and eventually
crawls into his sitting-room at a quarter past ten,
what can he expect?  And Mrs Freeman was not
the sort of lady to keep anything warm for lie-abed
lodgers.

Having nibbled half a cold egg, Mortimer turned
his attention to the loaf, and eventually breakfasted
off bread and marmalade.  The butter he eschewed,
as it appeared to claim first cousinship with train-oil.
As the tea was by this time black, and bitter
to the taste, Jim sought to appease his thirst with
a bottle of beer from the rickety sideboard.  The
cork of the bottle being in a state of crumbling
decrepitude, Mortimer had to delay his drink while,
with the help of a spoon and some expletives, he
fished the broken fragments out of the beer.

"A picture," observed a quiet voice, while Jim
was thus engaged, "calculated to melt the heart of
any maid."

"Hullo--*Koko!*"

"While I object to that nickname," gravely
responded the little man who had entered, as he
removed his hat and displayed an almost entirely
bald head, "I am compelled to reply to it.  Well,
how are you, young feller?"

Jim replied in a testy murmur that he felt all
right, and proceeded to drag more fragments of
cork out of the beer.  Meanwhile, the man who
had come in laid his hat, gloves, and stick on the
far end of the table, and then arranged his tie in
front of the mirror over the mantelpiece.

"Doocid dude you are, Koko!" said Jim, looking
at his friend over the edge of the glass; "why,"
springing up, "*you've grown!*"

Now, as the caller was but an inch or two over
five feet in height, there was every reason why he
should have felt congratulated by this remark.

"No," he said, in a resigned voice, "I haven't
grown--I've only got some of my fat off."

As Jim towered high above his friend--his height,
if anything, accentuated by the clinging folds of
his dressing-gown--the little man gazed admiringly
up at the Long 'Un, and deep down in his heart
perhaps, heaved a little sigh because of his own
smallness.  For, alas!  Koko had finished growing.
He was thirty, and already bald; he was years
older than Jim--so was it likely he would grow
now?  And this was why, and quite naturally,
George Somers, reporter on a sporting newspaper--this
little, bald, quiet, unassuming man--had come,
at first, to notice Jim Mortimer, and afterwards,
when they got to know one another, to like him,
and, finally, when they became close friends, to give
him his whole heart in that sterling regard which
men sometimes have for men, when each is sure
that the other is worthy of such unflinching esteem.

Koko was neat and dapper in his dress, with
nothing awry about him.  He was excellently and
attractively tidy, with the tidiness that little people
have.  So well proportioned was he, that his small
stature never seemed ridiculous, even when viewed
in close juxtaposition to the Long 'Un's great
length.  Koko was, in countenance, well favoured,
with a small, neatly trimmed dark moustache, and
rather large, mild eyes.  Though generally impassive,
his face would at times light up with a wonderful,
sudden smile--a smile that it did you good to look
upon, a smile that told you that Koko's nature
was all gold.

And Koko, you must know, had for some years
been inspired with the feeling that it was his
particular mission in this world to look after the Long
'Un.  Though he had many other duties, and one
other hobby, he always found time to keep an almost
maternal eye on Jim Mortimer.

"By the way, old boy," said Koko, after a time,
"have you unpacked?"

"Only my pyjamas and dressing-gown," said Jim.

"Shall I lend you a hand?"

Mortimer gave a deep laugh.

"Anybody would think I was a blooming kid,
Koko, by the way you talk," he said.

"So you are," said Koko, as he made his way to
the adjoining bedroom, "in a great many things."

In a leisurely manner the Long 'Un followed after
his friend, who was already bending over the
unstrapped portmanteau.  Mortimer was in a lazy
mood, the beer he had consumed having filled him
with a feeling of lethargy.  Sitting on the end of
his bed, he smoked and watched Koko as the latter
endeavoured to find his way through the hurly-burly
before him--as he took the socks out of the boots
in which it was the Long 'Un's custom to pack them,
rescued a tin of tooth-powder from the toe of a
dancing pump--wherein it had been wedged to
ensure safe travelling--fished a razor and
shaving-brush out of the sponge-bag, and a sixpenny
popular novel from the folds of a fancy waistcoat,
put everything into its proper place in the chest
of drawers or wardrobe, and at length paused,
his task accomplished, in a somewhat flushed and
heated condition.

"First-rate valet you'd make, Koko," said the
Long 'Un, ungratefully.

Koko, without replying, pushed the empty
portmanteau under the bed, and then washed his
hands.

"I must be off now," he said simply.

"Oh, hang on a bit," returned Mortimer, as they
went back to the sitting-room.

"Must go," said Koko, smoothing his silk hat with
his coat sleeve--"work."

"Where?"

"Billiards in the afternoon, fight in the evening."

And with that he quietly departed.

Nobody would have dreamed that this quiet little
man with the bald head had attended and described
in nimble boxing terminology some of the fiercest
combats that have ever been held at the National
Milling Club; nobody would have dreamed that the
Mr George Somers, whose hobby was the collecting
of old, worm-eaten volumes, and whose initials,
"G.S.," were so familiar to the readers of the *Book
Hunter*, was a well-known figure in swimming-baths,
gymnasiums, billiard saloons, football, and cricket
grounds the country over, gun clubs, lacrosse clubs,
tennis clubs, and weight-lifting clubs.  Yet the little
man who nosed round bookstalls in Holywell Street
(that was), Wych Street (that was), and St Martin's
Lane (that is), in search of rare first editions, was
identical with the little man who accompanied Jim
on many of his freebooting expeditions "up west,"
and with the little man who attended sporting
functions of every kind all the year round, rain or
shine, in the proud capacity of the *Sporting Mail's*
"special representative."

When Koko, some hours later, on his return from
the billiard match, again looked in on the Long 'Un,
he found Mr Mortimer still in his dressing-gown
lolling over a book.  The table bore the *débris* of
Jim's lunch.

As Koko entered the room, Mortimer threw away
his book and yawned sluggishly.  Koko walked
gently up to him, and stood by the arm of his chair.

"I've got a bit of news for you, Jim."

"Go ahead with it."

"I've found out who that girl is."

"*What?*"

The Long 'Un was out of his chair in a second, all
life and fire and eagerness; the transformation was
complete.

Koko laughed inwardly; he never laughed out loud.

"Yes, I've found out about her.  She's one of the
girls at the Milverton Street post-office--she's the
girl that takes in the telegrams."

"Are you sure?" exclaimed Jim.

"Certain," said Koko, selecting a cigarette from his
little silver case.

Mortimer was struck dumb with delight.  For,
ever since Koko and he, whilst taking tea at an
ABC shop near St Matthew's Hospital, had on
three successive occasions observed an extremely
handsome girl at a neighbouring table, the Long 'Un
had been burning to know the young lady.  That
was before he went home for a month's vacation.  It
would appear that Koko, faithful as ever to his
friend's interests, had not been idle during that month.

"Come on," exclaimed Jim, "let's go and send off
some telegrams.  She'll at least be obliged to look at
us.  That'll be something, won't it?"

"Yes, that'll be something," said Koko; "all right,
go and get dressed."

The Long 'Un disappeared into the bedroom, and
presently emerged in proper attire.

"You'd better wear your tail coat and top-hat, or
I may cut you out," suggested Koko.

With a bellow of laughter, the Long 'Un hurried
into his bedroom again, issuing therefrom a minute
later clad in the kind of coat and the kind of hat
affected by Koko.

"Now," said Koko, as they left Jim's sitting-room,
"we start level."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A HANDMAID TO MERCURY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A HANDMAID TO MERCURY.

.. vspace:: 2

Mortimer was in such haste to reach Milverton
Street, that it was all Koko could do, with his short
legs, to keep pace with him.

"I shall send one to myself to start with," explained
Jim, "and then I shall go in at intervals and send
wires to you, and the fellows at the hospital."

"Won't you find it rather expensive?"

"My boy, what is money *for*?" exclaimed the
Long 'Un with enthusiasm.  "Could I employ it
better than in----"

"Yes, a good deal better," retorted Koko;
"couldn't you go in and buy halfpenny stamps,
and just *glance* over in her direction?"

"The stamp girl wouldn't like that," returned
Mortimer with frank vanity; "but, I say, old man,
isn't all this reckoning up of the cost rather sordid?"

"Well, perhaps it is," agreed Koko; "but apart
from that, I don't quite see how you can effect anything.
She doesn't look the sort of girl you can even
discuss the weather with, unless you have been
properly introduced to her."

"Never mind that for the present," said Jim.
"Try and suggest a suitable telegram for me to send
to myself."

"Do you wish to impress her with the fact that
you have means?"

"Just as well," said Jim; "I shall have a tidy
amount some day, you know."

"Then wire and tell me to put a pot of money
for you on a horse."

"And then?"

"Make the next something about shares--'*Buy
me ten thousand Canadian Pacifics*,' let us say."

"Well, and what's the third wire to be about?
I can't put money on gees or buy shares every time."

"Make her jealous.  Send a wire to '*Maggie
Mortimer*' at your Pimlico address, and put '*Best
love, darling*,' at the end of it," suggested Koko,
demurely.

The Long 'Un stopped dead, and faced round on
his small companion.

"Look here, Koko," he exclaimed, "I've taken
your advice in several--er--affairs of this sort, and
they've all turned out badly."

"In each case it was your own fault," said Koko.

"In each case you really managed the business,
and it came to nothing.  The fact is, you don't
know anything about women.  You may be all very
well at a trotting match----"

"All right," said Koko, shortly, as he turned on
his heel, "you can manage this by yourself."

"I apologise," cried Jim.

"In that case," said Koko, relenting, "I'll come.
But I don't want you to round on me if it's a
failure."

"I promise I won't," the Long 'Un declared, and
so once more Koko stretched his short legs to the
utmost in order to keep in step with Jim.

.. vspace:: 2

Miss Dora Maybury was quite one of the handsomest
girls that ever obtained employment--by
competitive examination--in the London Post-Office.
It was, therefore, not at all surprising that the
susceptible Jim Mortimer should have been so affected
by her beauty.  Dora's hair was chestnut brown;
the dreamy depths of her dark eyes were fringed
o'er with long lashes, from beneath whose graceful
shadow she gazed upon the world with an expression
that was at once distracting and unconsciously
coquettish; her lips closed in exquisite lines upon
teeth that were as white as you could wish them to
be; and the whole form of her face--from forehead
to chin--was such as the most censorious judge of
a human countenance would not have desired to be
other than what it was.  Dora was tall, too, and of
graceful figure--in brief, she was as comely a maid
as you could well behold in a year's journeying.

It sometimes occurs that a girl brought up in
luxury finds herself suddenly plunged into genteel
poverty.  Such was the case with Dora.  Not so
very long since she had lived in a great house,
and ridden in carriages; then Fortune, in a sudden
freak of fancy, had turned her back upon her, and,
as if by a sweep of a fairy's wand, the mansion had
changed to much humbler quarters in London, and
the carriages into penny and halfpenny omnibuses.

It was natural that the unusually prepossessing
girl behind the counter of the post-office in Milverton
Street should attract a good deal of attention.  Those
who had occasion to send away telegrams pretty
often--busy, preoccupied men though most of them
were--soon came to notice this particular clerk's
refined voice and manner.  She had not been
engaged in post-office work long enough to have
acquired the slap-dash, curt style of the lady-clerk
who has sat at the telegraphic seat of custom for
several years; she was still sufficiently of an amateur,
indeed, to display some human interest in many of
the messages which were handed in to her.  Not
that a telegraph clerk is supposed to do this; but
Dora could not forbear a smile when she was counting
the many words of a wire from a love-sick swain
to his lady-love, nor could she feel quite indifferent
when a telegram bearing the direst ill-news--news
of grave illness or even death--passed through her
hands.

But we do not wish to have it supposed that we
are holding up Dora Maybury as an angel of pity--or,
indeed, as a perfect character in any sense.
When business was slack, and Dora had time to
think about herself, a pettish and discontented
expression might often have been observed to flit
across her pretty face.  As a post-office clerk, Dora
felt that she was not filling her proper niche in the
world--and probably a good many other people
thought so too.

There were five other girls behind the counter of
the Milverton Street post-office, in addition to
telegraphists in the room above, several male clerks,
and a small gang of telegraph boys.  Dora's great
friend among the other girls was Rose Cook, a fat,
good-natured, sentimental creature, who was at present
desperately in love with a gentleman she had met
at a dance--a Mr Somers, who wrote for the newspapers.
Mr Somers was a friend of some friends
of Miss Cook's, and that was how she had come to
meet him, and to hear of his very tall friend, Mr
Mortimer.  But it should be added that Mr Somers
had seen very little of Miss Cook, had no idea of
the passion that consumed her, and was certainly
wholly ignorant of the fact that she was employed
in the Milverton Street post-office.  He had only
been in this particular post-office once in his life,
and then he had had eyes for none save the young
lady who took in the telegrams.

Now, earlier in this very day that witnessed the
journey of the Long 'Un and Koko to Milverton
Street, Miss Cook had been bemoaning the fact that
"Mr Somers" had actually been in the post-office
a few days previously, and had not so much as
glanced at her.

"He was looking at *you*--they all do!" she had
exclaimed, while discussing the matter at lunch with
Dora.

Dora made no reply, but she was thinking over
Miss Cook's complimentary complaint later that
day, when a very tall man entered the post-office
and proceeded to one of the compartments where
telegram forms and pointless pencils attached to
pieces of string were supplied for the convenience
of the public.

Dora noticed that the tall man occasionally
glanced towards the door, and presently began to
beckon to somebody who was presumably standing
in the doorway.  After a time the person beckoned
to entered the post-office, and, as he did so, Miss
Cook, who was sitting next to Dora, gave vent to
a little gasp.

"What's the matter, dear?" inquired Dora.

"That--that's--Mr Somers!" exclaimed Miss Cook.

"And who is the other?" asked Dora, who was
not greatly impressed by Mr Somers's appearance.

"That must be his friend, Mr Mortimer."

Quite unconscious of the fact that their identity
was no secret in the post-office, the Long 'Un and
Koko proceeded to compile telegrams.

"What a lot of forms Mr Mortimer is tearing up!"
whispered Dora to her friend.

"Evidently sending a telegram to a girl," replied
Miss Cook, who was still looking agitated, and whose
thoughts were naturally trending in a sentimental
direction.

Dora smiled.  The sight of Koko standing on
tip-toe, and craning his head over the Long 'Un's
arm, was certainly smile-inspiring.  So Dora smiled.

Presently Mortimer withdrew his head and
shoulders from the compartment, and turned
towards the counter.  It should be added that the
various communications suggested by Koko had all
been condemned as worthless by the Long 'Un, who,
with some pains, had finally evolved the following
bald and uninspiring message: "*Annie arrives nine
to-night.  Please meet.  Jim.*"

Koko turned towards the counter at the same time
as Jim, and as he did so his face underwent a striking
change.  For there, gazing ardently upon him, sat
Miss Rose Cook.  In a flash Koko took in the
situation, and saw that here was Jim's chance.  He
could introduce Jim straight away.

It was too late to stop Jim from sending the
telegram, for he was already handing in the message
and gazing with undisguised admiration at Miss
Maybury.  And as Miss Maybury bent her beautiful
head over the form, and with a swiftly moving--far
too swiftly moving--pencil, proceeded to count the
words thereon, Jim's heart thumped wildly against
his ribs, Jim's brain seemed to reel, and Jim fell head
over ears--hopelessly, irretrievably---IN LOVE.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`JIM REJOICES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium bold

   JIM REJOICES.

.. vspace:: 2

Five minutes later Jim Mortimer was sailing down
Milverton Street in a state of mild delirium.  Instead
of having to wait for months for an opportunity of
becoming acquainted with the girl whose face had so
captivated his fancy, the whole thing had been
accomplished in a briefer time than it takes to write
of it.

Koko it was who had effected this desirable
consummation--Koko who had offered up himself on
the altar of friendship.  Koko saw as plain as
daylight that Miss Cook was exceedingly pleased to see
him, and knew that the introduction he contemplated
would result in his having to meet with undesirable
frequency a lady in whom he took no interest
whatever.  A few words of greeting were exchanged;
then Miss Cook--who had an axe of her own to
grind--introduced him to Miss Maybury, and then,
as a matter of course, Koko made Mortimer known
to the two girls.

Dora Maybury!  So that was her name!  What a
sweet name!  *Dora*!  The Long 'Un dwelt lovingly
on those two dear syllables.

He proceeded to murmur the name in an abstracted
manner until they reached St Matthew's Hospital.
Here Jim's hosts of friends greeted him in the
heartiest fashion, and bottled beer flowed freely in
the students' common-room.  Koko knew many of
Jim's friends, and always enjoyed himself when in
the company of the light-hearted happy-go-lucky
crew at "Matt's."  Jim sat down and rattled off a
comic song on a piano which, by reason of much
hard usage, had long since lost its purity of tone.
Jim played cleverly by ear; and, as he could sing
songs by the score, he was consequently the star
artiste of "Matt's."

"Chorus, boys!" he roared, and the boys, forming
up in a line behind a red-haired youth from Wales--with
a voice worthy of his nationality--pranced
round the table as they let go the taking refrain at
the top of their voices:--

   |  Oh, follow the man from Cook's!
   |  The wonderful man from Cook's!
   |  And, whether your stay be short or long,
   |  You'll see the sights, for he can't go wrong.
   |  Oh, follow the man from Cook's!
   |  The wonderful man from Cook's!
   |  For it's twenty to one that there's plenty of fun,
   |  If you follow the man from Cook's!
   |

The last words of the chorus were ringing out into
the quadrangle, when a porter entered the room and
informed the pianist that a lady wished to see him.

"Lady!" exclaimed Jim.

"Yes, sir; wishes to see you very particular."

"Go on, Long 'Un!" yelled the students, "next
verse."

But Jim's head was filled with romantic ideas.
What if, for some strange, inexplicable reason, it
should happen to be Dora!  True, it was not very
likely, but he had read in books of things like this
happening.

"Half a second, you men," he said; "I've got
to see somebody."

"Girl?" queried the red-haired youth from Wales.

But Jim (hoping it was) hurried out without
replying to him.  He found his fair visitor to be no
other than Mrs Freeman, his landlady.

"Mr Mortimer, sir," she said, in some agitation,
"this came for you just now, sir.  I hope it's not bad
news, sir."

For in the homely eyes of the landlady a telegram
generally loomed large as a portent of ill.
Jim opened the flimsy envelope, and read:

.. class:: center small

"Annie arrives nine to-night.  Please meet.  Jim."

.. vspace:: 2

Until this moment he had forgotten all about the
wire he had sent himself.  Now it had reached him
in all its imbecile meaninglessness.

Mrs Freeman regarded his face anxiously.

"Not bad news, I 'ope, sir?"

Jim crushed the thing into his pocket somewhat
impatiently.

"No; it's all right, thanks, Mrs Freeman.  It's--it's
nothing.  Thanks for bringing it."

And so Mrs Freeman had to retrace her steps to
Pimlico, feeling (it must be confessed) somewhat
disappointed at the non-tragic contents of the
message she had so carefully conveyed to the
hospital.

Jim imbibed more beer and sang more songs, and
finally, when the party broke up, dragged Koko off
to dine at the Trocadero.  All through the meal Jim
was excessively merry, his bursts of laughter causing
many of the diners to glance curiously in his
direction.  Koko, knowing by long experience that
he could do nothing to stem Jim's methods of letting
off steam, decided that his place to-night must be
by Mortimer's side; so he hastily scribbled a note
asking a colleague to report the fight at the National
Milling Club for which he (Koko) had been booked,
and despatched it to the *Sporting Mail* office by a
special messenger.  Koko felt easier in his mind
when he had done this; he saw that Jim intended
to make a night of it, and that his programme would
be a variegated one.

Dinner over, the Long 'Un hailed a hansom, and,
Koko having stowed himself away inside, took his
place with a brief "Exhibition!" to the driver.

"*Dora!*" breathed Jim, as the cab sped across the
Circus and headed for Piccadilly.

"I expect she likes nice, quiet men," said Koko.

"Not she," returned Jim with conviction.

"A nice, quiet, home-loving man--not a man who
shouts, and swears, and behaves like an over-grown
schoolboy," persisted Mr George Somers.

"You're very severe to-night, my bald-headed
young friend," quoth the Long 'Un, with supreme
good-humour.

"Never mind about *my* head," said Koko; "think
what *yours* will be like in the morning."

"But it is to-night!" cried the Long 'Un, "it is
to-night, and I mean to go the whole hog.  Let the
morning take care of itself.  It is to-night; I have
seen her; I *know* her; and now I am enjoying
myself very much."

"You are also," added Koko, "on the verge of
intoxication."

"Very near the verge," whooped the Long 'Un.

The cab was approaching Hyde Park Corner when
Jim raised the little trap-door above his head.

"I've changed my mind, cabby; drive back to the
Empire."

"Empire?  Yessir!"

"You'll be chucked out of there to a certainty,"
said Koko, despairingly.

"Not me," said Jim.

But at the music-hall Mortimer was politely
refused admittance by a man as tall as himself, and
considerably broader.

"No, sir; you gave us trouble the last time you
were here.  I haven't forgotten you, sir."

"But that was Boat Race night," protested Jim.

"No matter, sir; can't let you in."

And the official squared his great shoulders and
glanced at another official, almost as big as himself,
who was standing a few yards away.  Simultaneously
Koko gave Jim's sleeve a tug.

"Come on," he said; "no good getting into a row."

Reluctantly Jim turned on his heel; he was in a
mood for battle, and he had an idea that, big as the
official was, he (Jim) could have rendered a pretty
good account of himself had it come to a scrap.

The cab they had employed was lingering in the
vicinity of the entrance.  Jim hailed it and again
gave the order "Exhibition."  And in the course of
thirty minutes or so, Koko and he found themselves
passing through the turnstiles at that popular resort.

Very pleasant it was, too, sauntering through the
bazaars and make-believe old streets, and round the
band-stands, while eye and ear were charmed with
colour and music respectively, and the promenading
multitude laughed and chattered, forgetting the day's
cares in a spell of enjoyable indolence.

But Jim was bent on celebrating the great event
of the day--his introduction to Miss Maybury.  He
was desirous of applying more rebellious liquor to
his young blood, and intimated the fact to a little
Swiss waiter.

"*Dora!*"  Jim gave the toast and drained his glass
at a gulp.  Up came Carlo again with a smile of
appreciation.  "As before," said Jim, and again
toasted Dora.

Just then a pale, well-dressed young man, passing
by in the company of two ladies, trod on Jim's
outstretched foot.  Jim gave vent to an exclamation,
but the doer of the harm simply glanced over his
shoulder without vouchsafing an apology.

"Why don't you look after your feet, sir!" cried
Jim, angrily.  To do him justice, he did not notice
the presence of the ladies.

The perambulating crowd was thick just there, and
the proprietor of the feet alluded to was brought to
a standstill close to Jim by people coming in the
opposite direction.

"It is never nice here," he observed to one of his
companions in a tone evidently intended to reach
Jim's ears, "on early closing nights."

For all Jim knew, the man who had trodden on
his toes was making this remark to another man,
but Koko had noticed the ladies, and now perceived
that while one of them was regarding Jim with
haughty disfavour, the other kept her face turned
resolutely towards the bandstand.

"I'll show you what sort of a shop-boy I am!"
exclaimed Jim, in a fury, and was jumping up when
his leg got into difficulties with the little round
table at which he was sitting, the result being that
he fell over and broke the back of the chair he was
occupying.  In his struggle to retain his balance
he swept the glasses off the table and smashed
them, and, when the little Swiss waiter requested
payment for the goods, rudely declined to give any
compensation.

When the waiter beckoned to a policeman, men
sitting at neighbouring tables rose to their feet,
evidently expecting trouble.  People in the vicinity
stopped promenading, in order to look on.  They
talked about what followed for days afterwards.

The constable was not one of the gentlest of his
species.  He asked Jim for his name and address,
and Jim produced his card; then the policeman told
him he must leave the Exhibition, and, as Jim
appeared reluctant to obey this order, gave him a
push in the direction of the nearest exit.

Now, the policeman, regarding Jim's long, slim
form, had not anticipated much trouble from this
customer.  How was he to know that Mr James
Mortimer (that being the name on the card) had a
marvellous way of hitting straight from the shoulder?
Rough and unscientific he might be, but his blows
came pat like a donkey's kicks, and hurt almost
as much.

When the policeman had picked himself up and
blown his whistle, the bystanders fairly tingled with
excitement.  They saw a little man urging the tall
one to submit quietly, and they saw the tall man
shake off the little man as one would brush away
a fly.  The tall man's hat had fallen off, and the
little man was holding it.  The tall man was a
good-looking fellow, the bystanders remarked, and
as he drew himself up, and glared defiance at the
approaching enemy, he reminded certain spectators
of some heroic subject in sculpture or painting.  Of
course, this was because they were inclined to be
romantic.  The bulk of those present saw in Jim
merely a young man the worse for drink and spoiling
for a fight.

A burly sergeant strode up.

"Now, then, none of this nonsense," he said roughly.

*Crack*!  That peculiar straight left met him on
the jaw, and the sergeant collapsed on to the gravel.
Two more policemen rushed at Jim.  Again the long
arms shot out.  One policeman fell, and the other
staggered.  Jim followed the latter up and delivered
the *coup de grâce*.  At that moment Jim felt a
muscular hand gripping his neck.  He lashed round
furiously, then closed with his antagonist, and they
fell among the chairs.  Jim was on top, and wrenched
himself free as a fifth policeman charged at him.  A
bit of a boxer was this man, young and active, and
Jim and he hammered each other with the lustiness
of schoolboys.  Up and down among the chairs they
went, and then Jim, seeing an opening, got home on
the point, and turned swiftly to receive the sixth
policeman, an enormous fellow who was unfortunately
given to over-much beer.  He hit Jim on the chest,
and Jim gasped; then he hit at Jim again, and Jim,
dodging the blow, retaliated with a sledge-hammer
slap across the back of the big man's neck.  The
big man clutched at a table, and Jim hit him in
the spine and upset man and table.  Then three
policemen, sore and furious, rushed at Jim together,
and there was Jim's close-clipped poll towering above
them, and there were Jim's long arms dealing out
donkey kicks, and leaving marks every time.  And
then Jim retired in good order, face and fists to the
foe, towards the buffet, and then, suddenly altering
his tactics, he put his head down and butted the
middle man of the trio in the stomach, and so made
his way through them, and ran into the burly
sergeant, who hit at Jim with his truncheon, but
missed him, and got a crashing blow in the mouth
by way of exchange.  And that was Jim's last
good donkey kick, for one of them got him by the
leg, another hit him over the hip with his truncheon,
and next moment Jim was rolling about the gravel
with four of them clinging to him.  And, of course,
he at length surrendered, and was marched off
between two of the policemen to the police-station,
the faithful Koko following a few yards behind to
bail him out.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE DOCTOR KEEPS HIS WORD`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE DOCTOR KEEPS HIS WORD.

.. vspace:: 2

The whole fight did not last two minutes.  It was
short, sharp, and, to sport-loving members of the
crowd, very sweet.  Certain pugilistic souls among
the visitors to the Exhibition went home that night
and dreamt about it.  Many of the women, it is
true, shuddered, and clutched convulsively at the
arms of their male companions as Jim's mighty hits
went home and the policemen, by turn, bit the dust
of the promenading ground, but quite a number
watched the combat with bright, marvelling eyes,
and lips parted half in admiration and half in horror.

For Jim looked very handsome and terrible in
his fighting wrath.  One old gentleman who had
come from his club dinner in evening dress to listen
to the band, returned to St James's Street chuckling
with delight.  Numbers of times he repeated to
himself, "A bonny lad--a bonny lad!" and actually,
instead of going home and to bed at a respectable
hour, as an old gentleman of his years and gouty
tendencies should have done, fought the battle over
again at great length for the benefit of some other
old club fogies, and finally had to be helped into a
cab--at 2 A.M.--still chuckling with wicked joy.

It was, of course, a tremendous output of nervous
energy--accentuated by the spirits he had imbibed--on
Jim's part.  It was a supreme effort, and died
out suddenly.  That smash over the hip--a policeman's
favourite aiming-point--from the truncheon
numbed him strangely, and when he fell, his capture
was an easy matter.  There was no more fight left in
him when they led him off--he would have gone
with entire docility, indeed, without a hand being
laid on him.

Arrived at the police-station, he was conducted
into the charge-room and placed in the narrow little
dock facing the inspector's desk.  The inspector, a
quiet-looking man, glanced up in a casual fashion
and then proceeded with the writing on which he
was employed when they entered.  This done, he
inquired what the charge was, and, on being informed
of its nature in the curt, unadorned phraseology of
the man in blue, entered the particulars on a charge-sheet
that lay before him, and finally allowed Koko
to bail his friend out for £2.

Those who had witnessed the conflict would have
been astonished by the inspector's imperturbable,
cool tone, as he asked his brief questions.  It was
regarded as a matter-of-course case--youthful
"medical "--too much to drink--dispute with
waiter--resisted police.  All very ordinary--very
matter-of-course--nothing out of the way.  The inspector even
said "Good-night, sir," as Jim left the charge-room
with Koko; previously the inspector had gazed at
the ceiling as Jim presented a sovereign to his
two custodians, who also bade him a "Good-night,
sir," in a manner which showed that they bore him
not the slightest ill-will on account of the hard
usage they had received at his hands.

On the following day, Jim and Koko attended at
the police-court and hung about in a fusty corridor
for two hours before the name "Mortimer" was
sharply called, and Jim, frock-coated, neatly gloved,
and with a new hat in his hand, walked into the
dock.  Then the sergeant who had taken part in the
fracas told his tale in the same unadorned manner
of speech that his subordinate had used on the
previous night.

"Anything to say?" inquired the magistrate,
glancing at Jim.

"Nothing, your worship," replied Jim, who had been
previously warned by Koko that "the less said the
better" was a golden maxim to adopt on an occasion
like the present.

.. _`"I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY, YOUR WORSHIP."`:

.. figure:: images/img-042.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY, YOUR WORSHIP."

   "I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY, YOUR WORSHIP."

The magistrate, who for two hours had been
hearing the usual sordid charges--most of them
associated with petty thefts and drunkenness--had
been somewhat interested by the sergeant's account
of what Jim had done.  Now, as he looked at Jim's
tall, lithe form, and fair, open countenance, and noted
Jim's gentlemanly bearing, he decided to give the
young fellow a seasonable word of advice.

"I am sorry to see you here, Mortimer," he said,
"because a man of your position, by acting as you
have done, not only sets a bad example, but runs the
risk of imperilling the success of his future career.
You have rendered yourself liable to a term of
imprisonment, and you know well that if I were to
inflict such a punishment on you the fact would act
as a serious obstacle to you hereafter, as you would
not be allowed to fill any responsible medical post
were it known that you had been in prison.  It
appears from the evidence that you were the worse
for drink at the time you resisted the police.  I need
hardly remind you of the view the public take of a
medical man who gives way to such habits.  It
means, in the long run, utter ruin to him.  As I said
before, I should be acting within my rights by sending
you to prison, but as I understand that after you
had been taken into custody you gave the police no
further trouble, I shall only inflict a fine upon you.
You will pay forty shillings--and take care I don't
see you here again."

Jim bowed.  "I am greatly obliged to your
worship," he said.  Then, at a sign from a policeman
stationed near by, he quitted the dock, and, having
paid his fine, joined Koko in the corridor.

They lose no time in London police-courts.
Hardly had Jim left the dock than the name of
"Hodgkins" was uttered by the magistrate's clerk,
repeated by the sergeant, bawled down the corridor by
the constable at the door, and echoed by other policemen
lounging in the outer precincts of the court.

"Hodgkins!"

"*Hodgkins!*"

"HODGKINS!"

As Jim joined Koko, a blear-eyed, decrepit old
dame brushed past him at a rapid hobble.  She had
to answer a summons for assaulting a neighbour by
striking her over the head with a fire-shovel.  This,
in fact, was "Hodgkins."

As Jim glanced at the old creature he realised that
this quarrelsome, ill-favoured hag and he were
companions in distress--united by a law-breaking bond!
He, inflamed by whisky, had fought six policemen;
she, supping cheap gin, had burst into a senile frenzy
and set upon some other hag with her claw-like nails
and the weapon that came first to hand.  The same
law applied to both of them--she, a rag-picker, and
he, the heir to a bountiful fortune and many smiling
acres in Eastfolkshire.

"Pah!" he exclaimed, as he hastened to reach
cleaner air, "let's get out of this!  Thank goodness
*that's* over!"

"No harm done," said Koko, cheerily.  "I know
the two men in the reporters' box, and they both
promised not to write a word about you."

"By George! that's jolly of them!" exclaimed the
Long 'Un.  "My grand-guv'nor won't get to hear of
it after all, then."

"It would have made a tasty little par," said
Koko, with a pressman's instinctive knowledge of
what newspapers like.

"It would," said Jim.  "I can imagine how it
would have read."

"But they won't write a word.  They're good
sorts," said Koko.

And so the Long 'Un made his way back to Matt's,
lighter, it is true, of purse, but very much lighter of
heart as well, than when he set out to the
police-court that morning.

News of Jim's display of pugilistic prowess had
preceded him to the hospital--for one of the students
had been an eye-witness of the battle--and he was
saluted by the unruly crew there with acclamation.
But Jim still had the taste of the police-court air in his
mouth, and did not feel at all heroic.  But for Koko's
intervention his name would have been in a good
many papers on the following day, and perhaps a
briefer notice of "Hodgkins" and her misuse of
domestic implements would have followed the account
of the young doctor's "disorderly conduct."

That day he went home early, and tried to do
some reading.  He ended up, however, by going to a
theatre with Koko.  On the next evening he really
did do some reading, and this studious fit lasted for
quite a week.

"The Long 'Un," said the red-haired student at
Matt's, "is turning over a new leaf.  I will buy him
a prize."

When Jim, on reaching the hospital next day,
entered the students' common-room, he found a neat
package, addressed to himself, occupying a prominent
position on the mantelpiece.  On opening the package
he found that it consisted of a nice little one-and-sixpenny
book, of the kind published by religious
societies, entitled "Jim's Repentance: *The Story of a
Bad Boy Who Saw the Evils of His Ways.*"

The red-haired youth took the precaution of putting
the table between himself and the Long 'Un ere he
said: "Had to go through a catalogue before I
found a suitable prize for you, Jim.  Girl in the shop
helped me."

Jim flung it at his head.

"Naughty, angry Jim!" said the red-haired student,
reprovingly, as he dodged the book.  "I shall take
your prize away from you now."

Presently Jim found himself at the piano, and a
little later out in the quad with the red-haired one
and half-a-dozen others, "wondering what to do."

Eventually they solved the problem by going to a
music-hall and joining vociferously in the choruses--it
was one of those music-halls where the audience
*does* join in the choruses--and the end of it was that
Jim got home sometime between one and two in the
morning, feeling uncommonly merry and not at all
repentant.

But that was Jim's last night round the town with
the Matt's lot.  Even while he was chirruping choruses,
an epistle was winging its way towards him by
express train.  He got that missive at breakfast time,
and Koko, who called in just then, found him looking
thoughtful.

"Read that," he said to Koko.  And Koko read
as follows:--

.. vspace:: 2

"Pangora," Threeways,

.. class:: noindent

Sept. 20th.

.. vspace:: 1

MY DEAR JAMES,--You may possibly remember that in the
course of the conversation I held with you over the telephone
on the day of your departure for town, I expressed myself
quite plainly with regard to your future conduct.  My attention
has to-day been drawn to a paragraph in the local Liberal
journal--I am, as you know, a Conservative in politics--to
the effect that a medical man named James Mortimer, who
gave his address as St Matthew's Hospital, behaved in a
disgraceful fashion at the Exhibition one night earlier in the
month, and was eventually fined forty shillings and severely
reprimanded by the magistrate.  As I happen to know that
you are the only Mortimer at St Matthew's, and as I am
aware of your liking for drunken brawls, I can only conclude
that you disregarded my injunctions at the first opportunity
that presented itself.  I am obliged, therefore, to keep my
part of the compact by informing you that my doors are
henceforth closed to you, and that you need never look to
me for another penny.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   I am,
   \    Your affectionate grandfather,
   \        JOHN MORTIMER.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SIR SAVILE'S OFFER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   SIR SAVILE'S OFFER.

.. vspace:: 2

"But," said Koko as he handed the letter back to
Jim, "how on earth did your local rag get hold of it?
I've seen both my friends since, and they assured me
they didn't write a line about you."

"I give it up," said Jim; "the fact remains that
the old man has got wind of it."

"But isn't this action on his part a bit sudden?"
demanded Koko.

"He said he would," said Jim, munching a piece of
watercress (Mrs Freeman's unvarying Tuesday breakfast
was ham and watercress), "but I didn't think he
meant it."

"Perhaps he doesn't mean it," said Koko, hopefully.

"I am very much afraid," returned Jim, "that he
does, though.  You see, he was already wild with me,
as he had had to stump up for that big window I
broke--you remember!  Twelve quid--that was the bill.
He told me about it over the telephone.  I wish I'd
been able to have a square talk with him, face to face;
he wouldn't have been half so wild, I put all this
down to that rotten telephone."

"Don't quite perceive how it's to blame," said Koko.

"Don't you!  Why, if he tackled me face to face,
I could have filled him up with all sorts of promises
of reformation, and sent him off for his drive feeling
sorry that I was going away.  Instead of which he
went off in a beastly huff.  I should have reminded
him--as touching the window--that some fellows
charge their paters and grandpaters hundreds and
even thousands.  I should have explained that twelve
pounds was a very light let-off.  Hang the telephone!"

"The question is," said Koko, "do you think he
means it?"

"Yes," replied the Long 'Un, with conviction.

"Then," continued the other, "what are you going
to do?"

"*I* dunno!  Turn sporting reporter very likely!"

"Well," said Koko, "with your knowledge of
sporting matters you might be able to earn about
twelve and sixpence a week just now--say by
reporting football matches.  That would hardly
keep a man of your expensive tastes."

Jim laughed.

"Couldn't I do the fights at the National?" he
suggested.

"No, my boy; you've had no experience--of
reporting, I mean.  But, seriously, Jim, can't you
get a doctoring job?"

"I shall have a look round for something," said Jim.

Koko gazed at the ceiling.

"If it hadn't been for that girl," he mused
sorrowfully, "this would never have happened.  You
were off your head about her----"

"Absolutely!" agreed Jim.

Koko sighed.  "Women are always at the bottom
of man's undoing.  Avoid them in future, Jim."

"Not I," said Jim; "I'm not built that way."

"Well, you've lost any chance you had of getting
this one," said Koko.

Jim's face fell.

"By George!  I hadn't thought of that.  I'm glad
I didn't send that wire about Canadian Pacifics.  We
shall meet on more level terms now."

"Upon my word," said Koko, "I think you are
the most optimistic man I have ever met.  Here
are you--disowned--kicked out--cut off without a
shilling by your grandfather--and you are still
thinking----"

"I still hope," breathed Jim, devoutly.

Mr Somers walked towards the door.  However,
he turned back to say one more thing.

"If, Jim, you should find it necessary to approach
another kind of relative----"

"I fear I shall find it necessary," sighed the Long 'Un.

"I was going to say," continued Koko, "that if
you want to pawn anything, *I'll* pawn it for you.
I can nip in easier than you."  And with that he
went quietly on his way.

Having shaved and dressed, Jim set out, as a
matter of course, for the hospital.  As he walked
along he reviewed the situation, and the awkwardness
of his present plight became clearly apparent
to him.

Yesterday he was the heir to a fortune and a
flourishing practice.  (The asylum he left out of his
calculations, as he was aware that a private institution
of this kind can now--according to the law of
the land--only descend from father to son, and on
the death of the latter must cease to exist.)  To-day
he was a young man of four-and-twenty, with a
medical qualification, various surgical implements, a
small collection of well-thumbed works relating to
his craft, a sufficient wardrobe, and some thirty
shillings in cash.  Thus provided, the world was
before him, and he was wondering what sort of a
job he and the world would make of it, when, as he
blundered absent-mindedly round the corner of the
street in which St Matthew's Hospital was situated,
he ran plump into the stalwart form of Sir Savile
Smart, the eminent specialist of whom mention has
already been made.

"What--*Mortimer*!"

"How do you do, Sir Savile?"

The great man's moustache hid a smile as he
observed: "And how many more policemen's
helmets have you added to your collection?"

Jim blushed.

"You'll get a fine wigging from your grandfather
if he hears of your latest adventure," added Sir
Savile.

"He *has* heard of it, sir," said Jim, and forthwith
told the specialist of what had befallen him.

Sir Savile bit his moustache.

"No hope of a reprieve, I suppose?"

"No hope whatever, I fear," said Jim.

Sir Savile hailed a cab.  "I'm due at Harley Street
in fifteen minutes, but I can talk to you on the way."

He laid his hand kindly on the Long 'Un's arm
as the cab approached them, and to Jim's credit
be it said that he felt, at that moment, that he had
more good friends than he deserved to have.

"Practically," said Sir Savile, as the cab sped
westwards, "you want a billet?"

Jim ruefully acknowledged that he couldn't live
on air.

"You want a billet?  Good.  I've got one for you."

He pulled a letter out of his pocket.

"My friend Taplow--'the ladies' doctor' they call
him--has a surgery over the water.  As you may
know, it's not an uncommon thing for a man with
a fat West-end practice to run a shilling and
six-penny shop in the slums.  Anything for money,
Mortimer!  Well, as I said, he's got a surgery
over the water--in the Blackfriars district--and he
wants a man to look after it.  He'll pay about a
hundred and twenty a year.  Any good to you?"

"Better than living on air," said Jim.

"Experience, too," continued Sir Savile; "heaps.
It's a rough, poverty-stricken quarter--very rough.
You'll make acquaintance with the masses.  The
man lately in charge of the place was not quite up
to the work--too old.  And he was unfortunate in
his end----"

"*End!*" said Jim.  "Is he dead, then?"

"Dead as a door-nail."

"What did he die of?" queried Jim.

"Boots and knives.  He was killed by Hooligans."

The Long 'Un opened his eyes wide.

"Perhaps," said Sir Savile, "you will now think
that even living on air is better than risking one's
chances of living on anything?"

"Not at all, sir," said Jim, stoutly; "I'm quite
willing to take it on."

"I believe you are.  Well, go and try it.  Taplow's
out of town, and has asked me to put somebody
in temporarily.  I will put you in.  Any morbid
objections to sleeping in your predecessor's bedroom?"

"None at all," said Jim.

"Right!  You had better go to the place where he
lodged, then.  The surgery has no living rooms
attached to it--it's just a surgery and waiting-room.
When we get to Harley Street I'll give you full
particulars.  Quite sure you don't mind going?"

"Quite," replied Jim.

"I do like a man that knows his own mind," said
the specialist in a tone of approval.  "You needn't
stay there for ever, you know--you're too good for
that sort of work."

Jim blushed again.

"Still, it'll tide you over the present difficulty.
That's the point.  Ah, yes--and I must also give you
the address of the place where you're to lodge.
Better send them a wire.  House is about ten minutes'
walk from the surgery; people are gentlefolk, I
believe--family--come down in the world.  I
remember Taplow speaking of them to me--knows
something of them, and recommended his man there.
One of the daughters is a post-office clerk--very
pretty--that'll suit you, eh?"

"I intend to devote myself entirely to work in
future, sir," said Jim.

"Ah, yes!  Quite so--quite so!" said the specialist
chuckling.  "Let's see, yes--I recollect--the name
is--er--Marcombe--Mayflower--*Maybury*--that's it."

Jim uttered an exclamation.

"Eh?--what?" inquired Sir Savile.

"N--nothing, sir, nothing!"

"Oh," returned the specialist, "I thought you were
going to say something."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`NUMBER NINE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   NUMBER NINE.

.. vspace:: 2

Before the era of cheap train services, omnibuses,
and trams--when the outer London suburbs of to-day
were smiling meadowland, and people talked of
Hampstead "village"--there were many residential
quarters within a walk of the City on both the
Middlesex and Surrey sides of the river.  But with
the growth of steam power arose great factories, and
as fast as these central residential quarters were swept
away by commerce, rows and rows of new streets
swallowed up the fields that fringed Suburbia, and
afforded accommodation to those whose homes in the
heart of London were being razed to the ground.

But some of these quiet old squares and crescents
have survived to this day, and you may still find them
here and there, sadly shorn of the respectable family
appearance they wore in their youth, and hemmed in
by huge and ugly business barracks from whose grimy
windows issue the whirr and hiss and thud of
machinery, the monotonous clacking of type-writers,
and the continuous patter of footsteps on iron-shod
stairs.

These architectural survivors of a day when the
world, humanly speaking, did not go round so fast--when
the *Times* received news by "electric telegraph,"
and issued bulletins of various interest supplied by
"Mr Reuter's" special service--nowadays look like
faded old maids, for their exterior smartness is gone
and their interior arrangement smack of a time
when it never occurred to a builder to put a bathroom
in a house, for the simple reason that he did
not know how to convey hot water to it, save by
means of a can.  In some of them each floor is
occupied by a separate family, while in others you
may perceive the familiar dreary legend "Apartments
to Let" on a card which hangs disconsolately
in the fanlight over the door.

Such a crescent as we have described is Derby
Crescent, which is situated but a stone's throw from
the bustling thoroughfare that leads from Blackfriars
Bridge to the "Elephant," and thence on and away
to the Old Kent Road, itself suggestive of coach
and chaise and the days of our grandfathers.  Why
Derby Crescent escaped demolition when Dame
Commerce stretched out her long, lean, hungry hand
and grabbed wide acres of comfortable homesteads
for her building needs, nobody can tell you.  But
it remained, while its neighbouring squares and
crescents vanished; and so, when William Maybury
cotton spinner, of Manchester, was declared a
bankrupt, he was glad to hide his head in one of
the two houses which belonged to his wife in this
self-same area.  It was his second wife, for his first
had died whilst still pretty and youthful.  And it may
be added that he had long since repented his second
matrimonial venture, in spite of the houses and money
the lady brought with her as a marriage portion.

To No. 9, therefore, he removed such goods and
chattels as he was able to save from the wreck of
his luxurious house in Manchester, and at No. 9 he
had been residing for three years when Jim Mortimer
rattled up in a cab a few hours after his talk with
Sir Savile, and announced his arrival by plying a
knocker that, like the house it belonged to, had
seen very much better days.

After some delay the door was opened by a
slatternly maid of tender years, for her hair still
hung down her back in a plaited queue.

The girl surveyed Jim, and then said, "Are you
the new boarder, please?"  Then, before Jim could
reply, she turned swiftly round and exclaimed, in a
shrill voice, "Oh, shut *hup*, Master Frank!"

A boyish laugh rang out, and Jim, peering into
the gloomy hall, perceived a lad aged about fourteen
accoutred in Etons a good deal the worse for
wear--apparently harmony reigned at No. 9 as far as
appearances went--with a gleeful smirk on his face.

"Yes," said Jim, "I am Mr Mortimer."

"Will you come in, please?" the girl rejoined, and
again swished round to remonstrate with her
tormentor.  "Give *hover*, Master Frank--I'll tell your
ma, I will!"

"Sneak!" observed the amiable young gentleman
addressed.

"Leave my 'air alone, then!"

Jim turned round and bade the cabman bring his
portmanteau into the house, and as the cabman, with
much heavy breathing, deposited the portmanteau in
the hall, a large, middle-aged lady emerged from one
of the sitting-rooms and treated the new boarder to a
gracious smile.

"Dr Mortimer, I presume?"

Jim bowed.

"Sir Savile Smart was so kind as to wire--as well
as you--and tell us that you were coming to take
poor Dr Morgan's place.  Very sad, was it not?
Such a nice, quiet old gentleman!  But it's only old
gentlemen and women that these cowardly Hooligans
venture to touch--indeed, we hardly dare go out
after dark!  It gave us a great shock when we heard
of what had happened to Dr Morgan.  The poor
dear gentleman was really past work, and must have
fallen an easy prey to the ruffians.  My husband is
not so young as he was, and I often feel nervous
lest something should happen to him!  He makes
me very cross by refusing to carry a life-preserver.
Every evening I expect to see his mangled corpse
brought to the door.  If we could afford to, we
should move out of this dreadful neighbourhood,
but there! people must live where they can live!
When my husband met with his reverses, you see,
Dr Mortimer, our thoughts naturally turned to
Derby Crescent, where we could live rent free, as
my dear mother left me her property in this--but
your cabman is waiting, Dr Mortimer, and no doubt
you wish to dismiss him!"

During her flight of eloquence the cabman had
been regarding Mrs Maybury with a most grim and
forbidding expression on his face.  Jim, remembering
that he had left his overcoat in the cab, walked back
to the vehicle with him.

"What's the damage, cabby?" inquired the Long
'Un, when he had secured his coat.

"Leave it to you, sir."

Jim gave him sixpence over his fare.  Over-paying
cabmen had always been a weakness of his.

"Much obliged, sir!"  The cabman touched his
hat and pocketed the silver.  "Wish you luck of
your new quarters, sir."

"Thanks, cabby," said Jim.

"The way to treat '*er*," continued the cabman,
indicating the house--and presumably its mistress--with
his thumb, "is to cut in when she's 'arfway
through what she's got to say.  Them kind o'
wimmen don't mind bein' interrupted.  Leastways,
they mind a bit, but they ain't annoyed.  They go
on afterwards same as if you 'adn't interrupted of
'em.  You sees what I mean?"

"I see what you mean," said Jim.

"My old woman goes on just like 'er"--with
another thumb indication--"and so I know.  I let
'er reel it off till I'm tired, and then I change the
subjick, casual-like.  It's quiet easy to make 'em
change the subjick.  There's wimmen 'oo, directly an
idea enters their brains, utters it wiv their mouves.
See?  It goes inter one and outer the other as
natural as rockin' a baby.  But you can always
interrupt 'em wivout doin' any 'arm, so you bear my
tip in mind.  Good-night to you, sir!" he added,
mounting his box.

"Good-night to you, cabby," said Jim, who concluded,
as he walked up the steps, that the cabman
was something of a philosopher.

He found the little servant endeavouring to raise
one end of his portmanteau, which, being chock full
of clothes, boots, books, and instruments, was no
light weight.

"Don't trouble," said Jim; "I'll carry it upstairs."

"I really cannot allow you to do that," said Mrs
Maybury.  "Frank," she added, turning to the boy,
"help Mary with Dr Mortimer's portmanteau."

"Shan't!" said the boy, pouting.

"Obey me at once, Frank!"

"Shan't!" repeated the boy, disappearing into the
room from which his stepmother had emerged.

By way of settling the matter, Jim shouldered the
portmanteau.  "Kindly go first," he said to Mary,
"and show me where my room is."

As he was about to ascend the staircase, an
immense black cat came stalking along the hall
and rubbed itself, purring loudly, against his leg.

"What a wonder!" cried Mary.  "Tom generally
don't like strangers."

"Good old Tom!" said Jim.  Then he commenced
his ascent of the stairs, Mary preceding and "Tom"
following him.

Thus guided--and accompanied--he at length
reached his bedchamber--a by no means spacious
apartment on the second floor.

"This was Dr Morgan's room, sir," said the
servant; "it's to be yours now, sir."

"Thank you, Mary," said Jim.

Mary lingered.  So did the cat.

"It's the room he slept in the night before he--he
*died*, sir," she added, fearfully.

"Well," said Jim, with a smile, "I suppose he had
to sleep somewhere!"

"Y--yes, sir--but don't you mind, sir?"

"*Mind*!  No, of course not!  You can run along
now, if you like," he added, proceeding to unstrap his
portmanteau.

As Jim, after unpacking the peculiar assortment of
articles in his portmanteau, indulged in what barbers
designate a "wash and brush up," his thoughts
naturally turned to the people he was henceforth to
live with.  He wondered how many of them there
were; whether there were any more boys like Master
Frank; whether there were any more servants, and, if
so, whether they were all as small as Mary; whether
there were any more boarders, and, finally, whether
this was really the home of the Dora Maybury he
had met at the Milverton Street post-office.  On this
last point, however, he felt pretty certain.  To begin
with, Jim told himself, it was not probable that there
were two pretty Dora Mayburys employed by the
London Post Office; and, to end with, the boy Frank
bore a most remarkable resemblance to the Dora
Maybury Jim had been introduced to.  In the dim
light of the hall, indeed, the likeness was positively
startling.  Take that boy's Etons off and clothe him
in a neat black dress, put a wig of woman's black hair
on him, and then, with the angularities of his figure
shrouded by the gloom of the hall, there would be
presented to view a very good double of Dora Maybury.

Taking these two arguments--if such they may
be called--into consideration, Jim felt pretty sure
that this was Dora's home.  *Her* home!  Jim's brain
reeled for a moment at the mere idea of it.  His
coming here seemed to have happened as things
happen in dreams--he could hardly realise even yet
that he was actually under the same roof as that
which afforded shelter to Dora Maybury.

So quickly had this change in his circumstances
been brought about, that he had not even considered
what Miss Maybury's ideas on the subject of his
advent might be.  In truth, he hardly dared to
consider the position from that point of view.

Jim had accepted his present post in his usual
happy-go-lucky way, being at an age when men of
his temperament do not act with much forethought.
Had Sir Savile asked him to accompany an
expedition in search of the North Pole, he would have
agreed to go without a moment's hesitation; had
the great surgeon offered him a billet as medical
officer to a tour of exploration in Equatorial Africa,
Jim would have "signed on" with all the readiness
in the world; and with an equal amount of promptitude
he would have sailed as surgeon on an emigrant
steamer, would have taken over the medical duties
in a small-pox ship, a workhouse, a blind school, or
a convict prison.  Had some great air-vessel been
invented, Jim would have jumped at the opportunity
to accompany her in her ethereal journey as medical
adviser to the intrepid voyagers; or, if such a post
had been on offer, he would have consented to
doctor the exiles in a Siberian mine.  He was, in
fact, ready to go anywhere so long as he went in a
medical capacity.

Whatever Jim's faults were--and they were many
in number--he was at least devoted to his profession.
His heart was in his work, and when he really put
his shoulder to the wheel there was more than a
touch of genius in the manoeuvres of his "hand."  For
Jim was a surgeon before anything.

Here he was, however, in charge of an obscure
practice, where, owing to the proximity of hospitals,
there would be few calls on his surgical skill.  He
would always be welcome, of course, in the operating
theatre at "Matt's," although it was not likely that
he would often have time to attend there.

Did Jim regret accepting this humble billet in a
humble district?  Not for a moment!  Indeed, when
he thought how Fate had afforded him a chance of
seeing Dora every day, he very nearly broke into a
hornpipe on his bedroom hearthrug.  However, he
restrained himself, and went down to the drawing-room,
the big black cat following steadily in his wake.

Mrs Maybury, her large body clothed in a silk
dress that was well in keeping with the fallen fortunes
of the family, introduced Jim, firstly, to her husband--a
slender man of medium height, between fifty and
sixty, with an exceedingly well-cut face and neatly
trimmed beard.  He welcomed Jim to his house in a
few well-chosen, courteous words, and Jim, as he noted
the other's perfectly easy tone and manner, understood
how Dora had come by the same distinguishing
characteristics.

Jim was then introduced to the two other boarders--to
Miss Bird, a maiden lady of obese person, harsh
voice, and some sixty summers; and to Mr Cleave,
a tall, spare man, with a severe face whose beauty
was not enhanced by the pimples which flourished
upon its surface.  Mr Cleave appeared to be about
thirty years of age.

"And now," said Mrs Maybury, as Jim took his
seat on a small and uncompromisingly hard chair
by her side, "I will tell you our ways and hours,
Dr Mortimer.  We breakfast at eight, as my
husband and one of my daughters have to go to
business early----" ("Aha!" thought Jim) "and
Frank to school.  Not that he does much good
there," she continued, "as he is kept in almost every
day for not learning his home lessons properly.  He
goes to the Metropolitan School for Boys--yes, a
very good school, but the money seems to be wasted
in Frank's case.  Either he is teasing Mary or the
cat, or getting into mischief of some sort--indeed,"
lowering her voice, "he has nearly driven Miss Bird
out of the house already; not that that would be
a very great loss, indeed, seeing that she----"

"By the way, Mrs Maybury," said Jim, recollecting
the cabman's advice, "you will excuse my mentioning
it, but have you a dau----"

At that moment, with a jingle, a rattle, and a
stamping of hoofs, a cab pulled up in front of
No. 9.  Mrs Maybury hastened to the window and
peered through the blind.

"It is Dora and Mr Jefferson--how kind of him
to drive her home!"

Jim's tongue froze to his teeth.  "Yes, I have
two daughters--step-daughters, rather;" she continued,
returning to Jim's side, "the elder, Harriet
Rebecca--she hates her names so much that we
call her 'H.R.'--helps me with the housekeeping,
and Dora is in--in the--er--Civil Service.  Mr
Jefferson," she added, confidentially, "has been
paying her attentions for some time."

At that moment the door opened, and Dora
Maybury, radiant with excitement, hastened up to
her stepmother.  "Oh, mamma, Mr Jefferson has a
box at Daly's to-night.  Can I go with him?  He
says he doesn't mind Frank coming, too----"

"Certainly you may go, dear.  Oh, and one
moment, dear!  Dr Mortimer--this is my
step-daughter--Dora."

"I have had the pleasure," said Jim, as he bent
his lofty head, "of meeting Miss Dora before,
Mrs Maybury."

"Indeed!" cried Mrs Maybury.  "How very small
the world is!  Yes--and--Mr Jefferson--Dr Mortimer."

Dora's companion had entered the room and
approached the group.  Directly their eyes met, Mr
Jefferson and Jim recognised each other, the former
being no less a person than the pale-faced gentleman
who had uttered loud remarks at the Exhibition
concerning early closing.

"I too have had the pleasure of meeting Dr
Mortimer before," said Mr Jefferson, without troubling
to return Jim's bow, "but I cannot say that I am
pleased to see him again."

"Why, dear me!" said Jim with ready wit, "you
must be the man who trod on my toes at the
Exhibition the other night."

And at this unexpected rejoinder--much to Mr
Jefferson's annoyance--Dora's pretty lips parted in
an unmistakable smile.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN THE PILLORY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN THE PILLORY.

.. vspace:: 2

The somewhat strained situation brought about
by Mr Jefferson's remark was suddenly relieved by
a loud scream, and then a volume of shrill protest
from Mary, who appeared, judging by the sound of
her voice, to be in close proximity to the drawing-room door.

"Shut *hup*, Master Frank--give *hover*, I say.
Your pa shall 'ear of this----"

Master Frank jeered rudely.  "Bah, tell-!
Don't care if he does!"

"Oh!" shrieked Mary, "it's bitin' me.  Take it
off, Master Frank!"

Mr Maybury walked to the door and, opening
it, looked into the hall.

"What is the matter, Mary--why are you making
so much noise?" he inquired.

"Master Frank put a beetle on my neck,"
whimpered Mary.

"Didn't," said Frank.

"Don't tell an untruth, Frank," his father
warned him.  "Did you or did you not put a
beetle on Mary's neck?"

"It was a spider," admitted Frank, who, tease
and scapegrace as he was, had not yet developed
into that most difficult of persons to deal with--a
liar.

"It was something crawly, and I thought it was
a beetle," said Mary; "he keeps beetles," she added,
in a tone conveying painfully correct knowledge on
the point.

"Apologise at once to Mary," Mr Maybury
commanded his son.

"Don't see why I should," muttered the
rebellious youth.

"Very well, then--you will not go to the theatre
to-night with Mr Jefferson and Dora."

The younger Miss Maybury, blushing somewhat
(Jim noted the fact with a sinking heart), hastened
to the scene of reprimand.  "Oh, Frank--say you
are sorry.  You *must* come to-night."

Mr Jefferson, with his eye on the old-fashioned
chandelier, fervently hoped that Frank would remain
obstinately unrepentant.

"I'm--er--sorry," said Frank, stiffly.

"*Dear* Frank--I knew you would!" said Dora,
flinging her arms round her brother's neck and
bestowing a kiss of gratitude upon his brow.

"Here--chuck that!" cried Frank, shaking himself
free.  "What time must I be ready by?" he
added.

"We shall start directly after dinner--I'm going
up to dress now," cried Dora, and so the group
separated, Frank and his sister proceeding upstairs,
Mary descending to the kitchen--where Miss H. R. Maybury
was preparing the evening meal--and Mr
Maybury returning to the drawing-room.

"That boy," exclaimed Miss Bird, in a loud,
nutmeg-grating tone, "ought to be sent to a
reformatory."

Mrs Maybury turned on her lady boarder with
asperity.

"You will oblige me, Miss Bird, by moderating
your language when speaking of Frank."

"Idle, graceless young rascal!" added Miss Bird,
who was not at all afraid of Mrs Maybury.

"Of course," said Mrs Maybury, with a
contemptuous glance at her husband, "if the boy's
father allows him to be spoken of in this way, I,
who am only his stepmother----"

"Miss Bird is a little severe in her strictures, but
I am afraid something must shortly be done to curb
Frank's insubordination," said Mr Maybury with
admirable tact.

"Try him with a whipping and dry bread and
water for a week," snarled Miss Bird, who disliked
children generally, and abominated Master Maybury.

"Pardon?" inquired Mr Cleave, who had sat
through all the clamour deep in a bilious-looking
periodical called *The Total Abstainer*.  Mr Cleave,
it should be added, was a little deaf.  As, on looking
up, he found Miss Bird scowling at him, he concluded
that she had addressed him.

"--Bread and water for a week!" shouted Miss
Bird, irritably.  She hated having to repeat
anything, and the case was made worse in Mr Cleave's
case by the defect in his hearing.

"Water?"  Mr Cleave nodded and smiled.
"Certainly--plenty of water.  Are you an abstainer,
sir?" he concluded, turning to Jim, whose name he
had not properly caught when they were introduced.

"Not I," replied Jim heartily.

Mr Cleave blinked severely.

"You sometimes fall into deadly sin by polluting
your lips with alcoholic liquor?" he inquired.

"I occasionally have a drink," acknowledged Jim.

Gradually a very pained and shocked expression
stole over Mr Cleave's cadaverous countenance.  For
Mr Cleave, as need hardly be explained, was a fanatic
on the liquor question--the kind of ill-balanced
enthusiast that does his cause more harm than good
by his unbridled and immoderate denunciations of
the evil he wishes to abolish.  He gazed upon Jim
with wonder and shame, and then, deeming him too
hardened to be affected by remonstrance, turned for
comfort to the pages of *The Total Abstainer*, and
particularly to that part where notorious cases of
drunkenness were set down under the kind, Christian-like
heading of "OUR PILLORY."

While these remarks were being passed, Mr
Jefferson, who had dressed for the theatre before he
went to meet Dora, had been turning over the pages
of a magazine and occasionally stealing a glance at
Jim.  For he was rather puzzled at finding the
latter at No. 9.  He was--it must be remembered--entirely
ignorant concerning Jim's identity.  He had
seen Jim before, it was true, when visiting the
Exhibition with Dora and her sister, and had looked
diligently in the paper for several days afterwards
to see what sort of punishment had been meted out
to the turbulent youth, but had failed to glean any
information there, thanks to the absolute silence
Koko's press friends had maintained on the
subject.

So, gradually, the incident faded out of Mr
Jefferson's mind, and he had forgotten all about it
when he entered Mr Maybury's house on this
particular evening, to find himself face to face with
the disturber of the peace whose toes he had trodden
on some ten days since--and whose pardon he had
so unwisely omitted to beg.

Jefferson was the son of a wealthy City man.  He
enjoyed a liberal allowance, golfed, motored, and
ploughed the smooth waters of the Thames in a
steam-launch.  He did everything, in fact, which
cost money.  Golf is not a cheap game as played in
clubs round London; motoring is not a poor man's
hobby; a steam-launch is a fairly expensive toy.
Football and cricket are trifles light as air--from an
expenditure point of view--compared with the
pastimes Mr Jefferson followed.  Mr Jefferson might
have played football and cricket, for he was only
twenty-six, but he preferred pursuits which betokened
him to be the possessor of a well-filled purse.  When he
referred to his recreations he endeavoured to make it
clear to his listeners that he had been out in his own
motor-car, and that he had not been churning the
pleasant reaches of Henley and Maidenhead at the
invitation of any whisky baronet or tea and coffee
knight.  He had been, if you please, in his own
launch.  An unkind City acquaintance of his had
once wondered--audibly--why Jefferson didn't have
the receipted bill for his launch pasted on the
exterior of the craft, just under her name.  This was
unkind, but they say very unkind things about and
to each other in the City.  The Stock Exchange--of
which the Messrs Jefferson, father and son, were both
members--is as merciless in its chaff as a public
school.  Which, as my public school readers will
agree, is speaking very highly of the Stock
Exchange.

For the rest, Mr Jefferson could make himself
exceedingly agreeable when he liked, and as he was
good-looking, attentive, gentlemanly, and always well
dressed, it was not surprising that he had managed
to make an impression on Dora's girlish and
inexperienced mind.  To tell the truth, Mr Jefferson
had come to the conclusion that Dora would be his
for the asking, and, therefore, was not going to hurry
himself over the matter.  She was a charming girl--the
most charming girl he had ever met--and he
admired her immensely.  Possibly he would have
been deeply in love with her by this time had she
not always received him with a smile of genuine
welcome and accepted his invitations to go here and
there, and see this and that, with unconcealed
delight.  After the drudgery of the post-office counter,
and the doubtful joys offered by her home circle,
Mr Jefferson's society came as a very pleasant relief
to Dora.  Whenever they went out together he spent
his money handsomely and gave her of the best--and
Dora was accordingly grateful and quite prepared
to whisper a tender affirmative when Harold
Jefferson asked her to be his wife.

So stood the matter when Jefferson drove her
home--she had begged off from her work early, at
his request--this September evening.  So stood the
matter when Dora entered the drawing-room and
was introduced to "Dr Mortimer."

When Harold Jefferson, following Dora at a
leisurely pace, heard Jim say that he had met Miss
Maybury before, he pricked up his ears.  And when,
on entering the drawing-room, he saw who the
gentleman was that had met Dora before, a vague
but distinct feeling of annoyance came over him.
He had met Jim in the inimical manner already
described, and, as he turned over the pages of the
magazine, made up his mind to take an early opportunity
to inform Mrs Maybury of the part this new
boarder--Jefferson presumed Jim was a new boarder--had
lately played before a large and interested
audience.

Presently Dora and Frank came downstairs.  The
former looked prettier than ever in a white dress--with
a pearl necklace, a gift Of Mr Jefferson's, round
her fair neck, and some other tiny shining ornament
in her hair.  Frank looked unusually clean and
dapper in his best suit, Dora having tied a neat bow
for him and generally supervised his toilet.

Dora seated herself on the arm of her father's chair,
and stroked the thin hair on his head in the caressing
way both pretty and plain daughters are often
pleased to exhibit.  Once only Dora stole a shy and
somewhat apprehensive glance at Jim.  She had
recognised Jim's voice directly he spoke to Mr
Jefferson at the Exhibition, and had turned her face
away, as she did not desire Jim, on the strength of
his introduction to her earlier in the day, to address
her whilst he was in such a quarrelsome mood.

And now--here he was--this Mr (or Dr) Mortimer--under
her own father's roof; and here, too, was
Mr Jefferson, who had already expressed his feelings
with regard to this Mr (or Dr) Mortimer.  Under
the peculiar circumstances, Dora had no desire to
enter into conversation with Jim, and so took
shelter--as girls so often, and so wisely, do--under the
paternal wing.

Frank, however, had no reason to avoid Mr
Mortimer.  He rather admired him for the easy way
he had picked up his portmanteau and shouldered
it upstairs.  A real boy admires a strong man, and
Frank was a real boy enough--suffering, at present,
from being too much at home--for his summer
holidays were only just over.  So he seated himself
by Jim.

"I say, Dr Mortimer," he said at length, "would
you mind telling me how tall you are?"

Jim was genially glad of somebody to talk to.

"Six foot four," he replied.

"I *say*!  Do you like being so tall?"

"Don't mind it," said Jim; "knock my head rather
too often, perhaps."

Frank laughed.  "There's a master at my school
almost as tall as you," he proceeded, "but much
broader."

"Indeed!" said Jim, who frequently had to listen
to comparisons of this sort.

"Well," continued Frank, surveying Jim with a
critical eye, "I don't know whether he's *much* broader.
You are *rather* broad, aren't you?  But he's much
fatter.  They say he weighs eighteen stone.  What
do *you* weigh?"

"Frank," said Mrs Maybury, "don't ask such
personal questions, dear."

Dora smiled.  She was listening in a not
uninterested way to her brother's ingenuous remarks.

"Oh, I don't mind, Mrs Maybury," said Jim; "I go
just over thirteen stone," he added, addressing Frank.

The boy looked thoughtful.  Presently he said:
"Can you fight well, Dr Mortimer?"

He asked the question in all innocence, for Dora
had not breathed a word about Jim's performance at
the Exhibition.

"I don't like fighting," replied Jim; "I am afraid
of my nose bleeding."

Frank gazed at him with suspicion.  Then, as
Jim's face remained quite grave, Frank's grew scornful.
Afraid of his nose bleeding!  That was a nice
thing for a man of six feet four to say!

To what extent Frank might have continued his
interrogations we can only vaguely surmise, but at
this point Miss Bird--who had been much irritated
by Frank's inquisitive treble tones--dashed into the
breach.

"And what, Mr Cleave," she asked, "are the cases
in your 'Pillory' this week?  Anything of an
exceptional nature?"

Mr Cleave came to life with a convulsive start.
He had been absorbed in a series of reports supplied
by the *Abstainer's* special commissioner from the
London police-courts.

"Pardon?" he asked.  "Didn't catch----"

Miss Bird snapped her teeth, which came together
much as a man-trap would close on an unfortunate
poacher's leg.

"'Pillory!'  What's the worst case?" she bawled.

"Oh!  The cases in 'Our Pillory'?" bleated Mr
Cleave.

"Yes!  Read 'em out!" Miss Bird returned in a
saw-like, rasping growl.

Mr Cleave turned over the pages of *The Total
Abstainer* with evident relish.

"The worst," he said, in a high, thin voice, "is one
that our commissioner only heard by unexpected good
fortune.  He does not often go westwards.  He finds
that Bow Street and Whitechapel bring more grist----"

"Read it out!" shouted Miss Bird.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: smaller

"A piteous example of what over-indulgence in alcohol
may bring a man to (read Mr Cleave) was afforded by a
case which came before our notice one day last week in the
Kensington Police Court.  The degraded being, who faced
the magistrate with an unabashed gaze, was a young doctor
named Mortimer, who gave as his address a place of mercy
and healing--the Hospital of St Matthew."

.. vspace:: 2

"By George!" exclaimed Jim, "that's how our local
rag got hold of it!  Copied it out of your paper."

"Pardon?" observed Mr Cleave.

"Go on!" roared Miss Bird.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: smaller

"The facts were few but terrible (continued Mr Cleave).
This member of a noble calling, inflamed and rendered
reckless of all consequences by the Bend aforesaid, actually
made a ferocious onslaught on a band of six policemen.
In a fair pleasure garden he let loose his unruly passions,
and only after a terrific struggle was he captured,
handcuffed, and thrust into a cell----"

.. vspace:: 2

"They locked you up, then?" inquired Jefferson,
glancing maliciously at Jim.

"Not they," said Jim; "I was let out on bail."

Miss Bird turned sharply round and glared into
Jim's face.

"Are *you* the person referred to in that report?"
she demanded.

"I am," said Jim.

A silence fell on the room.  Even the dim-of-hearing
Mr Cleave appreciated the situation, and
understood that the lately arrived Dr Mortimer was
identical with the prime villain of the "Pillory" that
week.

"Pray continue, Mr Cleave," said Jefferson at
length, with a curl of his lip; "I am sure Dr
Mortimer does not mind."

Mr Cleave was bending over the paper again,
when an interruption came from an unthought-of
quarter.  Mr Maybury rose to his feet.

"I do not think," he said, "that Mr Cleave had
better proceed with his reading."

"Nonsense!" said Jefferson.  "Go ahead, Mr
Cleave."

"For the sake of the Cause, Mr Maybury," piped
Cleave, "I wish to----"

"I am master of this house," said the ruined
manufacturer, who, generally so mild and retiring,
now spoke with unfaltering firmness, "and I say that
no man shall be insulted to his face under my roof.
You will oblige me, Mr Cleave, by not reading
another word of that report.  Frank, go and see if
dinner is ready."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AT THE SURGERY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X.


.. class:: center medium bold

   AT THE SURGERY.

.. vspace:: 2

Jim set out for the surgery next morning feeling
somewhat depressed.  His sins were coming home
to him.  The attitude adopted towards him generally
by No. 9 was a hostile one.  After the sad disclosures
on the previous evening, Miss Bird and Mr Cleave
had, metaphorically, turned their backs on him; Mrs
Maybury was coldly polite; Miss H. R. Maybury
(a thin, angular young lady) barely recognised his
presence; and, on the whole, Jim would have spent
a most chilly evening had not Mr Maybury invited
him to play chess.

"Seems to me," said Jim, as he left Derby Crescent,
"I'm not in good odour there.  Shall I leave or
shall I live it down?  I should like to leave, but--*hullo*!"

This exclamation was caused by the hitherto
unnoticed presence of Tom, the great black cat, who
had quietly followed Jim out of the Crescent into the
main road, and seemed bent on accompanying the
young doctor to his destination.  Jim endeavoured to
make the cat go back, but Tom persisted in
accompanying him, and so at length the two reached
Mount Street, where Dr Taplow's surgery was
situated.

On the pavement by the surgery door a group of
meanly clad people were already waiting for "the
Doctor."  The women--they were all women or
children--gazed with interest on the Long 'Un.  He
was a man most people looked at twice, and to these
poor souls he was of peculiar interest, for he was to
minister to their ills.  And who--in times of
sickness--is of greater interest to one than the man who
possesses the skill to make one well again?

"Waiting to see me?" said Jim, cheerily, "All
right--you may come in in a moment."

Scouring the passage that lay on the other side of
the door was a hag of forbidding appearance.

"I am Mr Mortimer," said Jim, in reply to her
stare of inquiry.  "I have come to take charge of the
practice."

Passing by her, he opened a door on the right and
entered the waiting-room--a bare apartment furnished
with a few chairs and a table, on which latter
lay a scanty collection of well-thumbed periodicals.
Opening out of this was the surgery, which had not
been entered, save by the hag aforesaid, since Dr
Morgan had come by his untimely end.

On the desk lay the open ledger-with its quaint
Latin entries--exactly as poor old Morgan had left
it.  On the shelves were the usual ranks of bottles
containing acids, poisons, and other drugs; and here
and there on the counter under the shelves stood
various dose-glasses, phials, a stethoscope, and a
pair of forceps, in whose grim clutch a rotten double
tooth that had been wrenched from some unfortunate
aching jaw still remained.  The place was dirty and
untidy, and altogether the sight that met Jim's eyes
was most dispiriting.  This was, indeed, a humble
surgery in a humble district!

Still, Jim did not lose heart.  He was fresh from
one of the first hospitals in London--in spite of the
sudden change in his fortunes he was full of
enthusiasm, and eager to apply his knowledge.

The patients filed in, and Jim saw each in turn.
They were all suffering from common ailments, and
the Long 'Un--after his varied experience among
the out-patients at Matt's, where he had sometimes
doctored a hundred persons in one morning--made
short work of them.

One little girl had a rash on her chest and back.
Jim readily diagnosed the complaint as chicken-pox.

"Take her home and keep her in bed for a week,
mum!" said he, to the girl's mother; "keep her
warm, mind.  If she gets a chill, it will drive the
spots in, and the child may be very ill then.  Keep
her warm.  Medicine?  No, she doesn't want
medicine.  Just keep her warm--and away from
the other children.  All live in one room?  Well,
they'll all have it--if they've not had it before.  Just
as well.  Sixpence, please!"

A young seamstress had no appetite and felt too
weak to work.  No, she wasn't married--she helped
her mother.  Take anything to drink?  Only tea.
How often?  Oh, the pot was on the hob all day.
They just helped themselves when they wanted it.

"The matter with you, mum," said Jim, "is *tea*!
You're poisoning yourself.  So comforting?  Yes,
but it's poison.  No more tea, mum!  Medicine?
Yes.  I'll make you up a nice tonic.  And go out
for a walk every evening--don't tire yourself, though!"

But it wasn't all sixpenny and shilling counter-trade.
Later in the day--when it had been noised
about that a new doctor had come to take charge of
the practice--various messages--some verbal, some
scribbled on notepaper--arrived.  Would the doctor
come to see Mrs Smith, who was suffering from heart
complaint; and Mrs Jones, who had nothing at all
the matter with her, but always thought she had?
So Jim sallied forth and paid calls on the wives of
fishmongers and ironmongers, and greengrocers, and
publicans--nearly all his patients were women--ascended
rickety staircases, dived into evil-smelling
bedrooms, and went hither and thither and about and
around on his useful errands of healing and comfort.

Over the way, just opposite, was a provision shop
and eating-house, bearing the name of "Harris & Son."

From the portals of this establishment, about two
o'clock in the afternoon, issued a weary little old
man of Jewish appearance, who, after glancing up
and down Mount Street, crossed over to the surgery.

He found Jim doing up some medicine.

"How d'ye do, doctor?" said he.

"How are you, sir?"

"Queer, doctor.  Thought I'd come and ask your
advice."

"Go ahead," said Jim, jabbing a stick of sealing-wax
into the gas-jet.

"I've a funny feeling all over my 'ead--not in the
'ead, but all over it.  I've been a good deal worried
of late, doctor."

"Sort of feeling as if your hair was being brushed?"
inquired Jim.

"That's it.  Not so nice, though."

"I know it," said Jim; "I've had it myself when
I've been stewing hard for an exam."  (He hadn't
really, but "having had it himself" was a medical
formula that he deemed it well to abide by--it
comforted patients.)

"Vell, I never!  Vot is it, doctor?"

"Irritation of the subcutaneous nerves," said Jim,
wisely.

"Ah!" said the weary little old man, "sounds bad!"

"Oh no--it'll soon go off.  I'll make you up a
tonic with a touch of bromide in it.  That'll soothe
you."

"*Bromide*!  Vy, ain't that the vicked stuff society
ladies take?"

"Some of them.  But they take it neat--yours
will be diluted."

Jim made up a bottle of "the mixture," and the
old man laid down his shilling.

"I feel better already, sir," he said; "'ope you'll
come over to our place and get a bit to eat when
you vant it.  I'm from over the road--Harris."

"Right!" said Jim, "I won't forget.  Good-day,
Mr Harris."

And in this way an adventure befell Jim, for,
feeling hungry about an hour later, he went over to
the emporium of Harris & Son.  Blocking up the
doorway he found a burly ruffian with close-cropped
hair and a scarf round his neck.

"Now, my man!" said Jim, wishing to pass by.

The gentleman addressed turned on him with an
oath.

"Oo are you 'my manning,' young lamp-post?
*You* get out of *my* way--d'ye 'ear?"

Now Jim conjectured--and rightly--that the
ruffian in question was of the Hooligan order, or
belonged to a class of society near akin to that order.
So, being aware that he had to hold his own in this
district, and that it would never do to be intimidated,
and bearing in mind that in situations of this kind
it was a good plan to hit first and hit hard, he let
drive between the fellow's eyes and knocked him
clean off his feet.

This done, he stepped over him and proceeded
to the counter to order some food.

As the rascal dropped, a pale slip of a girl, who
was holding a baby, started up from the table at
which she was sitting and rushed towards the
prostrate figure.

The man Jim had felled struggled to his feet with
a flood of imprecations pouring from his lips.  The
blow had dazed him, and for a few moments he
glared about him in an uncertain way.  Then, as
his senses cleared, he perceived Jim, and gave a
hoarse cry, fumbling the while at the heavily buckled
belt which he wore round his waist.

"Oh, Jack--don't!" cried the girl, interposing her
slender form between the man and the object of his
meditated vengeance.  As she did so, Jim noticed
that one of her eyes was discoloured; it was not
hard to guess who had caused the injury.

"Get over the counter!" cried Mr Harris; "you'll
be safer 'ere."

"Not I," said Jim; "I can look after myself."

"'E's a terror," said the old man, in a hasty
undertone; "e's a Hooligan--the worst of 'em--their
boss."

"I don't care," said Jim; "I can tackle him."

At length the Hooligan managed to unclasp his
belt, but even as he did so two policemen entered
the shop.

"Now then--get out of this--quick!"

They knew him--evidently.  They were two to
his one.  And there was Mortimer near at hand to
help if required.

The Hooligan was not without some regard for
his personal well-being.  Directing a scowl of hate at
Jim, he put on his belt again and left the shop,
followed by the girl.

"Same old game?" said one of the constables to
Mr Harris.

"I didn't see it all--but I believe this gentleman
knocked 'im down," replied Mr Harris.  "'E's the
noo doctor over the road."

The policeman eyed Jim with interest.

"I'd advise you to be careful, sir," he said;
"that's the most dangerous man in these parts.  He's
just done six months, and only came out three days
ago.  We've been keeping an eye on him."

"I'll look out--never fear," said Jim.

For some hours after that Jim was very busy, but
even in the midst of his work he seemed to see the
white, pleading face of the Hooligan's girl-wife.  No
doubt she loved the brute--no doubt she had been
endeavouring to keep him in a good temper ever
since he had come out of prison.  And the man,
smarting from his recent confinement, sulky, and
conscious of his bull-like strength, had probably been
thirsting for a quarrel all these three days.

Then Jim's sharp speech fell on his ear, and the
Hooligan wasn't accustomed to being spoken to
sharply by anybody save a policeman.  He had
wheeled round fiercely, and had hardly had time to
take stock of the person addressing him before he was
floored.  He had never received such quick treatment
before in his life.

"Still," thought Jim, "I wouldn't have hit him
had I known his wife was there.  At any rate, I'd
have let him hit me first."

Jim got some tea at a shop in Blackfriars Road,
and was fully employed making up medicine at the
surgery until it was dusk, and the street lamps were
shining yellow.  Then he bethought him of Derby
Crescent and dinner.

He was tidying up the surgery preparatory to
taking his leave of the place for the day, when there
came a short, peremptory knock on the street door,
which he had previously closed.  Jim heard a
murmur of voices without.  A woman, it seemed, was
remonstrating with a man.

Jim went to the door and opened it.  There,
awaiting him, was the Hooligan; a little farther off
stood the latter's slip of a wife.

"Well?" said Jim, curtly.

Even as he spoke the girl gave the alarm: "Look
out, sir--he's got his belt off!"  But the Hooligan
was too quick, and the heavy buckle of the belt came
crash on to Jim's head, just above the brow, ere the
woman's warning was finished.

It was a frightful blow, and extracted a cry of
pain from Jim.  One cry, and then Jim sprang
forward, dodged the belt swinging at his head again,
and closed with the Hooligan.  The two forms fell
with a crash--Jim on top.  In a second he was kneeling
on the ruffian, his hands upon the other's throat.

"Oh, sir--oh, sir!--don't give him in charge!
Oh, sir--he shan't do it again!--please don't give
him in charge!"

It was a piteous appeal, and Jim, hearing, rose to
his feet.

"All right--take him away!"

Jim's head was swimming, and the blood was
trickling over his face.

He staggered back into the passage, feeling that
his senses were leaving him.  Supporting himself by
the wall, he passed through the waiting-room, gained
the surgery proper, and was clutching at the counter
when a figure appeared in the doorway.

It was the Hooligan--with an uglier look than
ever in his eyes.

Jim saw the brutal face and the uplifted belt.  The
man was going to hit him again.  The belt rose--but
of a sudden help arrived from an unexpected quarter,
for at that moment a little, quick-moving man entered
the surgery, and, noting the position of affairs, seized
the Hooligan's wrists, and brought the ruffian to the
floor with a neat trip.

"I got your card, and came along as soon as I
could," said Koko.  "By the way, who's your
friend?"

"Oh, he was only getting even with me," said Jim.
"I hit him earlier in the day."

The Hooligan's wife was endeavouring to make
her husband leave the waiting-room, but he seemed
anxious to renew the combat.

Her expostulations ceased abruptly, however--as
did the man's maledictions--and a new voice fell
upon the hearing of the two friends.

"Now, my good people, do you want anything
here?  If you will wait a few moments you shall be
attended to."

Then Jim and Koko saw the doorway of the
surgery proper filled by a portly form.

"You are Mr Mortimer, I believe?" said the new
arrival.  "I am Dr Taplow.  I am greatly obliged to
my friend Sir Savile for obtaining your services for
me, and must thank you for acting as my *locum tenens*
to-day.  I am accompanied, however, by the gentleman
I myself have appointed to take charge of the
practice, and so I shall not require you after to-day."

Jim bowed.  "Very good, sir," he replied.

"By the way--are you hurt?" inquired Dr Taplow.

"It's only a scratch," said Jim, reaching down his
hat.

"Indeed!  I was afraid it was something
worse ... er--if you will let me know what I owe
you, I will send you a cheque ... er ... come
in, Dr Perkins, come in ... er--*good* evening,
Mr Mortimer!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MR MAYBURY'S RESOLVE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   MR MAYBURY'S RESOLVE.

.. vspace:: 2

Mr Maybury received a long and severe curtain
lecture from his wife on the night of Jim's arrival
at No. 9, the subject of it being Jim Mortimer and
Jim Mortimer's delinquencies.

"After the disgraceful revelations of this evening,"
said the good dame, as, having blown out the candle,
her lord composed himself for slumber, "we can't
allow him to stay with us.  It would give the house
a bad name.  People would tattle and gossip until
we should be obliged to move.  Imagine!  Drunk
and disorderly! fought the policemen! had to be
bound with ropes and taken in an ambulance to a
police-station----"

"I hardly think it was quite so bad as that," Mr
Maybury interrupted in a mild, sleepy voice.

"The fact remains," continued Mrs Maybury, with
energy, "that he was taken to a police-station, was
fined, was reprimanded by the magistrate.  A nice
sort of man to have in one's house contaminating the
children!  Frank has taken a fancy to him already;
the next thing will be *Frank* fighting policemen----"

"Don't talk such nonsense, my dear," said Mr
Maybury.  "Medical students," he added, "often
get into trouble.  Nobody cares much if they do;
they are regarded as privileged madcaps.  Dr
Mortimer is a very young man--still a student at
heart.  I must say I like what I've seen of him very
much, and am not surprised at Frank's taking a
fancy to him."

"Do you want your son to be sent to a
reformatory, as Miss Bird suggested?" inquired
Mrs May bury.

"He won't be," her spouse assured her; "Frank
has no vices; he's only mischievous."

"If he imitates Dr Mortimer," cried Mrs Maybury,
"there's no knowing what the boy won't come to.
No, William, you must tell Dr Mortimer that he must
find fresh lodgings.  He can't stay here.  Miss Bird
and Mr Cleave will both leave if he does.  Mr Cleave
told me to-night that he cannot breathe the same air
as such a man."

"Cleave's an old woman," muttered Mr Maybury.

"Miss Bird----" began Mrs Maybury.

"I wish Miss Bird *would* go," put in Mr Maybury.

"And you can see Mr Jefferson doesn't like him,"
continued Mrs Maybury, "with half an eye.  Mr
Jefferson!--the man to whom you are indebted for
your daily bread!"

"I'm employed by his father," objected Mr Maybury.

"It's all the same.  Mr Jefferson got you your
post.  Suppose he told his father that you were
harbouring a man who fights policemen and gets
drunk----"

"His father would say that that was my business,"
rejoined Mr Maybury.

"Well, we can't risk keeping him here.  It's
too dangerous.  I've no objection to the young
man myself----"

"Then why d'you go on about him so much?"
retorted Mr Maybury.

"For the sake of our home and its reputation,"
almost shrieked Mrs Maybury, "that's why.  Here
I work and slave and get no thanks--not a word
of thanks--and then, when I express an opinion, you
snap my head off.  It's more than flesh and blood
can stand!" she concluded, dissolving into tears.

"Suppose," said Mr Maybury, placidly, "we discuss
the matter in the morning?"

"I won't say another word," cried Mrs Maybury,
between her sobs; "I've said all I have to say.  If
you keep this man here, he'll take our good name
away.  There--now I've done!"

And so, with sobs at intervals, she at length fell
asleep.

The once wealthy merchant held a very modest
position in the business house of Jefferson & Son.
He was, in fact, but one of their book-keepers.
He--the erstwhile employer of fifty clerks and five
hundred workpeople--now sat on a high stool at
a high desk and laboured at the books for a small
salary.  When a man has come down in the world
with a sudden run he is generally to be had at a
low figure, and Jefferson & Son bore the fact in
mind when they engaged Mr Maybury.  The hours
(ten to four) were short, it is true, but Mr Maybury
would have worked later willingly could he have
thereby added to his earnings.

The other clerks at Jefferson & Son's were mainly
young fellows between whom and Mr Maybury no
great bond of fellowship could very well exist.  He
was left largely to himself, therefore, went out to
his frugal mid-day meal alone, returned alone, and
said very little to those about him from the time the
office opened till its closing hour.

Harold Jefferson did not trouble himself with
business more than he could help.  He preferred
the West End to the City.  However, he put in a
certain number of appearances per week, and whilst
at the office treated Mr Maybury with respect,
mingled with a slight but distinct air of patronage.

Such conversations as they held related, of course,
entirely to the firm's business, and so it was with
no little surprise that, on the day following Jim's
arrival at No. 9, Mr Maybury received an invitation
from Harold Jefferson.  "I want to speak to you
about one or two matters," ran the pencilled note
which the office-boy handed to Dora's father, "so
shall be glad if you will lunch with me at 1.30.
I will be waiting for you at the front entrance at
that hour."

It was, of course, as much a command as an
invitation.  At the appointed time Mr Maybury
met young Mr Jefferson, who at once hailed a cab
and drove his guest to a restaurant in the West
End.  It would not do at all (thought young
Mr Jefferson) to be seen lunching with one of his
clerks at a restaurant in the City.

"Now, Mr Maybury," said the host, when lunch
was over and they had lit their cigars, "I have
two things to say to you.  One of them concerns
your daughter--Miss Dora."

Mr Maybury inclined his head.  He had not
imagined that this invitation was the outcome of
purely hospitable motives.

"I have been paying her attentions for some
time," said the well-to-do young stockbroker, "and
I propose, with your sanction, to ask her to marry me."

"You have my full consent to do so," said the
ruined merchant, graciously.

"From what you have observed, do you think
that my proposal will be favourably received?"
asked Jefferson, carelessly.

"I can offer no opinion," said Mr Maybury.

"I may at least take it that, if she accepts me,
you are willing to regard me as a prospective
son-in-law?"

"Perfectly willing," was the reply.

"Thank you.  Now, as to this fellow Mortimer----"

"I beg your pardon.  What has Mr Mortimer to
do with the matter?"

"If," said Jefferson, "I become engaged to your
daughter, Mr Maybury, I shall have a decided
objection to your allowing such a man as Mortimer
to remain under the same roof as my *fiancée*."

Mr Maybury took a thoughtful pull at his cigar.
The well-to-do young stockbroker looked keenly at
the ruined merchant.  It was to the latter's
advantage to defer to the former.  Was he not, as his
wife remarked, indebted to this man for his daily
bread?

Mr Maybury laid down his cigar and sipped his
champagne, and meantime such reflections as these
coursed through his brain.  He was a very poor
man, 'tis true, but he had always prided himself on
being a just one.  Personally, he had perceived no
great harm in "this fellow Mortimer."  Why,
therefore, should he turn him out of his house?

"Well?" inquired the young stockbroker, curtly.

"The most charitable course to pursue," said
Mr Maybury, at length, "would be to see how he
goes on.  Should he prove himself unfit----"

"He has.  He is a low, drunken brawler.  I
cannot bear the thought of Dora being brought into
daily contact with him.  You will at least admit
that I have a right to lodge an objection against
him--or will have, should your daughter accept me?"

"I should prefer to see how he goes on," said
Mr Maybury.

"Very well, sir," rejoined Jefferson, rising from
his seat with a look of great annoyance on his face,
"have it your own way.  Waiter, my bill.  Please
excuse me now, Mr Maybury, as I am not returning
to the City."

Instead of going straight to the office, when he
got back to the City, Mr Maybury turned into a
quaint little churchyard--a smoke-begrimed patch
of green, where one might rest awhile on a seat.
Here he remained for ten minutes, and when he
at length turned his steps officewards, he had made
up his mind that, however disastrous such an
attitude might prove to his prospects, he would
in no way seek to influence Dora in Harold
Jefferson's favour.  Nor should Jim Mortimer leave
his house, unless he himself desired to go.

"I have lost pretty nearly everything," thought the
ex-merchant as he paced his way along the crowded
pavement, "but till the day of my death I hope,
please God, to retain my self-respect."

The thought inspired him, and he went back to
his book-keeping with an unusual light in his eyes--with
an additional firmness in his step.  'Twas true
that Fate had robbed him of wealth and position,
but Fate's worst buffets could not cause him to act
in any way save that becoming a gentleman.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`KOKO'S WORD`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   KOKO'S WORD.

.. vspace:: 2

"We'd better have a cab," said Koko, in his quiet
way, as, after Jim's curt dismissal by Dr Taplow,
they walked down the pavement together.

"Right you are," groaned Jim.  He felt too ill,
weak, and miserable to do anything except just agree
with everything that was said to him.  If the gentle
reader has ever been sea-sick he will be in a position
to appreciate Jim's condition.

"Keep a grip on that lamp-post while I fetch one,"
said Koko, hastening away through the gloom of the
autumn evening.

When the cab arrived, Jim got in thankfully; and
the two friends, holding Tom, who had followed
Jim out of the surgery, between them, rattled off.

"I suppose you'll ask me to stay to dinner with
you?" said Koko.

Jim uttered a hollow laugh.

"Stay if you like, but I won't guarantee you'll
enjoy yourself."

"Any girls?" inquired Koko, flirtingly.

"Two," said Jim; "also a woman-man teetotal
crank, and a female gorilla."

Koko particularly wished to stay to dinner with
Jim, for he was formulating a plan for Jim's future.
But he was not going to expound it until Jim was
in a state to give it due consideration.

On reaching No. 9 they found Frank lurking in
the passage.  When Jim removed his hat, Frank,
observing his wound, was filled with curiosity.

"I say, Dr Mortimer, how did you hurt your
forehead?"

"Somebody hurt it for me," said Jim.

"Was it a fight?" inquired the youth excitedly.

"Kind of one," admitted Jim.

Full of the news he had gleaned, Frank burst into
the drawing-room, where Mr and Mrs Maybury,
Dora, and the other paying guests were awaiting
the summons to dinner.

"I say, pater, Dr Mortimer's been having a fight.
He's got an awful cut over the napper."

"Frank!" exclaimed Mrs Maybury, "how often
must I tell you not to use such vulgar terms?"

Frank grinned.

"You go and have a look at it!" he added, with
supreme gusto, "you never saw such a whopping
cut in all your life."

Mrs Maybury turned a glance on her husband
which plainly said: "And what do you think of him
now?"

Miss Bird gave a snort of disgust, and Mr Cleave,
heaving a deep sigh, buried himself anew in the
advertisements of *The Total Abstainer*, he having by
this time utterly exhausted all the literary portions
of the paper.

Jim sent Mrs Maybury a message by Mary
intimating that he had brought a friend, Mr Somers,
home with him, and would be greatly obliged if she
would permit the said Mr Somers to remain to
dinner.  Mrs Maybury graciously replying that she
would be "most happy," Koko and Jim (the latter
with his head neatly plastered) in due course
appeared in the drawing-room.

Much to Mrs Maybury's surprise, Koko, after
exchanging bows with the lady of the house, walked
straight across to Dora and shook hands with her.

"You know Mr Somers, then, Dora?" inquired
Mrs Maybury, somewhat sharply.

"Yes, mamma," replied Dora; "he is a friend of
Miss Cook's."

"Indeed!" said Mrs Maybury, to whom it seemed
that Miss Cook had been introducing Dora to very
undesirable people--for Dora had informed her that
it was by Miss Cook's agency she had become
acquainted with Jim.

Dora had now been in the post-office six months,
and had behaved so far in an exemplary manner.
Even the girl's stepmother, prone to find fault as
she was on the slightest pretext, had not discovered
anything to grumble at in Dora's conduct.  But
now--now affairs were assuming a different complexion.
Dora had made masculine friends unbeknown to
her mother.  One of them was a dissipated young
doctor, and the other--well, who and what was this
other man--this Mr Somers?

"And do you, too, belong to the medical
profession, Mr Somers?" inquired the dame.

"No, I am a journalist," replied Koko.

Miss Bird glanced up sharply; Mr Cleave also
looked across at the visitor.  Miss Bird had not
been introduced to Mr Somers, but she did not allow
little obstacles of that kind to stand in her way when
she required information.

"And what is your particular department?" she
abruptly demanded.

"I work for the sporting press--I am what is
known as a sporting journalist," replied Koko.

The inquisitive expression on Miss Bird's face
turned into a stony glare of disapproval.

"You go to horse-races?"

Koko did not like being cross-examined about his
private affairs in this unblushing manner.  So he
determined to let this rude old lady know all about
himself so as to save further questions.

"Yes, I attend horse-races and swimming-matches,
and billiard-matches and prize-fights----"

"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself!"
roared Miss Bird.  As for Mr Cleave, he uttered a
thin, high cough.  He had heard that the average
journalist did his work with a bottle of brandy at
his elbow--what then must a journalist be like
who reported prize-fights and horse-races!  What
indeed!

With a sigh he sought distraction in the long list
of "Homes for Inebriates" which appeared regularly
in *The Total Abstainer*.  This weekly journal was
Mr Cleave's invariable comforter when he felt
distressed.  Besides, it offered £100 insurance in the
event of one of its regular subscribers being accidentally
killed.  Several of Mr Cleave's nearest relatives
took in the paper, and Mr Cleave had often calculated
what amount he would receive as insurance should
all these relatives be killed in one railway
accident.

"I believe," Miss Bird went on (as Koko made no
rejoinder), "that drunkenness is a common vice
among persons working for the press.  Is that not
so, Mr Cleave?"

"Pardon?" queried Cleave, putting his hand to
his ear.

"Bless the man!" exclaimed Miss Bird, irritated
beyond measure, "why doesn't he get an
ear-trumpet!  I was saying," she continued, in a
boisterous key, "that most journalists were
drunkards.  Is that not so?"

Now, Mr Cleave recollected Mr Maybury's stern
rebuke of the previous evening, so he deemed it
as well to be cautious.

"*Some* journalists," he replied, nodding pleasantly
at Miss Bird.

"*Most!*" insisted Miss Bird.

"I will not go so far as to say that----" quavered
Mr Cleave.

"Then you are a coward!" snapped Miss Bird, in
utter disgust.  Mr Cleave had proved but a
backboneless creature when she had relied on his
support.

It is highly probable that Miss Bird would have
proceeded to put further questions of a personal
nature to Koko had not Mary popped her head into
the room with "Dinner's quite ready, mum."

Miss Bird's face cleared.  She could eat twice as
much as anyone else in the house (not excepting
Frank), and the announcement of dinner always put
her in a good temper.

Whilst Koko and Jim had been upstairs, before
entering the drawing-room, Jim had given his friend
a brief sketch of the situation.  For, it must be
remembered, this was their first meeting since Koko
had read old Dr Mortimer's drastic and final
epistle.  When Jim told Koko that this house was
the home of Miss Dora Maybury, Koko had smacked
his chum on the back and enjoined him to go in and
win; but when Jim mentioned Jefferson, and the
latter's attitude with regard to Dora, Koko whistled
thoughtfully.

Two things he decided.  Firstly, that Jim must
stay on at No. 9 at all hazards; and, secondly, that
the plan which had been in course of formation in
his mind from the moment Dr Taplow had told
Jim to go, must take an immediate and definite
shape.

That plan Koko intended to broach to Jim after
dinner.  But Fate willed otherwise.

The meal progressed quietly, the presence of a
stranger possibly having a restraining influence on
the shrewish outbursts of Miss H. R. Maybury, the
cheeky utterances of Master Frank, and the voluble
rebukes of Mrs Maybury.  Jim was seated between
Miss Bird and Mr Cleave, the two girls, with Frank
and Koko, facing him.  Dora, as a matter of fact,
sat immediately opposite Jim.

"Well, Dr Mortimer," presently observed Mr
Maybury, "you have not come through your first
day's work unscathed, I see."

For Mr Maybury felt sure that Jim would be able
to give a satisfactory account of the proceedings.

Miss Bird grunted; Mr Cleave cast a glassy eye
on the broccoli.  Both waited for Jim's defence.

Jim laughed.  "No," he said, "I met a Hooligan."

"Dear me!  So soon!"

"I thought it advisable, in view of the possibility
of my being some time in the district, to take a
strong line from the beginning.  So I led off by
tackling what turned out to be the worst man of
the lot."

"You have shown them that you are not a person
to be trifled with?" suggested Mr Maybury,
approvingly.

"That was my idea.  But you may be interested
to hear that another man has been put in permanent
charge of the surgery----"

"Then you are no longer employed by Dr
Taplow?" interrupted Mrs Maybury.

"That is so," said Jim.

"But he will still work in Mount Street," put in
Koko, quickly, "as he is setting up a practice there
on his own account."

They all glanced towards Koko, except Dora, who,
looking at Jim, observed that he was palpably
wonder-struck by Koko's remark.  Jim, indeed, was
as surprised as anyone at the table.  What on earth
was Koko driving at?

As everybody (except Dora) turned towards Koko,
Mr Somers rose from the table.

"You must excuse such an unceremonious
departure, Mrs Maybury," he said, "but I have just
remembered that I have a most important appointment
to keep.  I thank you for your very kind
hospitality.  Jim, I should like to see you before
I go."

As Koko bowed himself out, Jim, marvelling
greatly, followed him.  In the hall, Koko exclaimed:

"It's all right, Jim--I'll lend you the money."

"What--for me to set up against Taplow?"

"That's it.  You *must* stay here, and you'll do
well in Mount Street.  You shall have the money
in the morning, and then you can go along and rig
up a place and start right off.  What's the lowest
figure you can begin on?"

"I don't know," said Jim.  "Say fifty quid."

"You shall have it.  I'll be round here with it at
ten in the morning."

"But--old man--I don't like----"

"I've thought it out," said Koko, "and meant to
tell you all about it after dinner, but you forced my
hand by saying you'd left Taplow."

Then Koko put on his hat, opened the front door,
and slipped out.  Jim returned slowly to the dining-room.

"Is this true, Dr Mortimer?" asked Mrs Maybury,
in a tone implying some doubt.  "Are you really
setting up in Mount Street on your own account?"

Jim had implicit confidence in Koko's word.

"It is quite true, Mrs Maybury," he replied, coolly,
as he resumed his seat.





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.. _`"HARRIS & FATHER"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   "HARRIS & FATHER."

.. vspace:: 2

Mr Harris, senior partner in the firm of Harris &
Son, provision dealers, Mount Street, S.E., was in
a state of much tribulation.  For Mr Harris, owing
to an unfortunate propensity for backing horses
which either came in last, or fell down and broke
their legs, or behaved in some other unsatisfactory
fashion, had, as the phrase is, outrun the constable,
and on the day that witnessed his visit to Dr
Taplow's surgery, had found himself threatened with
bankruptcy and ruin.

That evening--there being no other course to
pursue--he had made a clean breast of his affairs
to his son Isaac, a weedy, lynx-eyed youth of a
greasy and unwashed appearance.

"So dat is the case, my son," concluded Mr Harris,
throwing out his hands in a gesture of despair; "and
now--vot are ve to do--vot are ve to do?"

Mr Harris and his heir, it may be added, were East
End Jews of a pronounced type, and their speech
suggested a certain German strain in their ancestry.

"It is very sad, mine fader," replied young Harris;
"it vos foolish of you to bet on dose 'orses----."

"It vos foolish of dose 'orses not to run faster!"
cried Mr Harris, proceeding to cut his nails with
the counter scissors.

"Don't take the edge off dose scissors, mine fader,"
said young Harris, snatching them away from his
parent.

"And vy not?  Dey are my scissors!" exclaimed
Mr Harris, endeavouring to grab them back.

"Ven I haf bought dem dey vill not be yours,"
explained young Harris, amiably turning the point
of the scissors towards his sire, so that, should the
latter persist in his endeavour to regain them, he
might receive some hurt from the effort.

The old dealer gazed wonderingly at his fond child.
"You--you vill buy dose scissors?  Ah! at the sale?"

"No--from you, mine fader.  I haf saved up some
money, and *I* haf backed 'orses, too.  But I did
notice, mine fader, dat the 'orses you did bet on did
always lose, so I did always bet on dose vot you
didn't, and so when you did lose I did often vin,
and so, mine fader, I will buy the pizness from
you--dat is to say," concluded the young man with
hasty caution, "I vill pay your debts, mine fader,
if you vill gif me the pizness."

"Isaac," said Mr Harris, with emotion, "do not
be hard on your old fader.  Think of the money I
skwandered on your education, my son--think of
the peautiful school I put you to ven you vos a
boy----"

"It vas only fivepence a veek!" retorted young
Isaac, ungratefully.

"And ven you vos fourteen, my son Isaac, ven
you vos an eddicated young gentleman, I took you
from dat school and I put you behind the counter,
and I taught you the pizness--and you had two
soots of clothes a year, and a veek's 'oliday at
Margit--oh!  I haf been a kind fader to you, my son Isaac!
Vill you lend me the money to pay my debts vith,
Isaac?"

"Not a farding!" exclaimed young Harris, roughly.
"You've been 'ard on me, and now I'll be 'ard on you.
You've made me vork and slave while you've gone
off to put money on 'orses that always fell down!
Yes, you've been 'ard on me, and now I'll be----"

Here young Harris paused in his harangue.  An
idea occurred to him.  If he bought up his father's
business and turned his father out of the house, he
would have to engage a shopman.  That would come
expensive.  No, he must keep his father on, and
make him help with the work.

Old Harris was quick to take advantage of the
discontinuance of Isaac's discourse.

"You von't be too 'ard on me, my son?" he
whined, "think of the pantermimes I took you to
ven you vos a little boy."

"Vell, I vill not be 'ard on you, mine fader,"
responded young Harris, apparently softened by this
tender reminiscence.  "No, I vill tell you vot I vill
do.  I vill take you into partnership.  You shall be
as I vos--you shall haf what you haf gave me.  Is
not that dootiful of me, mine fader?"

Old Harris groaned.  True, his son had been his
partner of recent years, but Isaac's share in the
business had been so small that it could hardly
have been called a share, save when viewed under
a microscope.  However, beggars can't be choosers,
so there and then young Harris drew up a
temporary agreement--to be presently made permanent
in a due and proper manner by a solicitor--under
which Isaac undertook to pay his father's debts
(which amounted to a hundred pounds--a large sum
for a small tradesman in a humble street), and Mr
Harris, on his side, undertook to hand over the
control of the shop to Isaac, he himself receiving
board, lodging, and a share in the business, on
condition he gave as much time to the business as his
son had formerly devoted to it.

Thus were the tables completely turned on the
unlucky provision dealer.

By way of showing that he was in earnest, and
not being restrained by any false delicacy, Isaac, as
soon as he had breakfasted on the following morning,
went out in search of a painter.  Having found a
man, he brought him and his ladder and his paint-pot
back with him, and set the man at once to alter
the title over the shop window from "Harris & Son"
to "Harris & Father."

So it came about that when Jim, having received
the promised fifty pounds from Koko, walked round
to see Mr Harris concerning a suitable tenement
wherein he might set up as a surgeon, he found the
painter just completing his task, and young Harris,
with his hands in his pockets, perkily surveying the
alteration.

"Hullo!" said Jim, "changes in the firm, I observe."

"Yes, doctor," said Isaac; "mine fader, he vos
ruined by 'orse-racing, and so it is now my shop,
and mine fader, he is my partner."

"Don't quite see how it can be your shop if he
is your partner," said Jim.

"*He* vill tell you," said Isaac, indicating the interior
of the shop with a dirty forefinger; "he is cleaning
the counter.  Soon he vill vipe the plates and
knives and forks.  He is going to vork now as I
did used to."

And Isaac resumed his occupation of watching
the painter with a most truculent and self-satisfied
expression on his face.

Jim walked into the provision shop.

"Morning, Mr Harris."

Mr Harris shook his head despondently.

"I ain't Mr 'Arris no longer," he said.  "'*E's* Mr
'Arris.  '*E's* the boss.  Ah, doctor," continued the
old man, wiping away a tear with his shirt-sleeve,
"if I'd a-known this vas goin' to 'appen--if I'd
a-known that velp vos goin' to buy me up by bettin'
on the 'orses I said vos no good, I----"

Mr Harris paused for breath.  Jim waited for some
interesting old Hebraic curse.  But none came.

"--I'd never 'ave let 'im see my evenin' paper.
That's vare 'e got it.  I marked the 'orses I vos
goin' to flutter on, and 'e saw 'em and laid
accordin'!"

"Rather smart!" laughed Jim.  "The firm got
square with the bookies that way."

"And when I think," almost shrieked old Harris,
"that 'e betted vith money out of the till--that he
used my money to play me that trick vith--when
I think of *that*----"

Again Mr Harris paused for breath, again Jim
expected a rich and fruity paternal curse, and again
none such came.

"When I think of that," resumed Mr Harris,
"it goes to my 'eart to remember I vouldn't
buy a cash-registering machine that vos offered to
me at '*arf-price* by a pawnbroker friend of mine
'oo vos giving up!"

"And why didn't you?" asked Jim.

"*Vy*?  Vy, becos that velp yonder--young Isaac--says:
'Fader, do not buy that machine.  If you
do, the customers vill steal the sausages vile ve
turn our backs to get the change.'  That is vy.
And I gave 'im a shillin' for bein' so clever.  And
it's a thousand pound to a little bit of cat's meat,
doctor," concluded Mr Harris with great bitterness,
"that 'e laid that bob on a 'orse that came 'ome!"

"Well, Mr Harris," said Jim, "I'm sorry you
have been so unfortunate.  But I must get on
with my business.  I want to open a surgery in
this street, and I want you to tell me if there's a
likely house about here for the purpose."

Mr Harris fixed his gaze eagerly on Jim's face,
and as he did so his eyes lightened up with a
great idea.  What he wanted was a little ready
money.  Get that ready money he must, or his
scheme would fail!

"Yes, doctor," he said, "I know a 'ouse.  That
pawnbroker friend of mine, 'e shut up 'is shop
when 'e retired from business, and asked me to
get a tenant for it.  You shall 'ave it cheap, my
dear sir.  You can 'ack it about a bit, and it'll
suit you fine.  Come and see it--come on!"

In nervous haste the old man put on his coat
and hat.  "Come on, doctor," he said.

But young Isaac confronted his father at the shop
door.  "Vare vos you goin', mine fader?" he inquired.

"I vos goin' vith the doctor.  If I oblige 'im 'e
will attend us for nozzing, my son.  Is that not
good?  Come on, doctor."

With this Mr Harris hastened past his son, and,
accompanied by Jim, at length arrived at a
dingy-looking shop, whose shutters bore sundry placards
giving the world to understand that the place was
"TO LET."

"There, doctor, that vill make you a peautiful
surgery.  But you shall see it."

When Jim had inspected the place he decided to
take it.

"What's the rent?" he asked old Harris.

"Sixty pounds a year, doctor, paid quarterly in
advance."

"Do I pay you, Mr Harris?"

"Yes, you pay me," replied the dealer, hastily.

"All right.  Then that's fifteen pounds.  You
shall have it as soon as I have taken possession.
You get a commission on this deal, eh?"

"*I* get a commission?  Vy, yes, I vould not let
anything vithout one.  I get ten per cent, doctor
dear--to come off the first quarter's rent.  That's six
pounds.  You *vill* pay me in advance, doctor, eh?"

"Oh, rather!" said Jim.

At this point Mr Harris looked cunningly at his
young medical adviser.  "The top part of the 'ouse,
doctor dear--you vill sleep in it?"

"Not I," said Jim.

"Then you vill not vant it?"

"Well, I suppose not."

"You vill lend me the outside, then.  Eh?  You
vill lend me the vall?"

"Lend you the wall--what for?"

"First say you vill lend it me!"

"Well, I'll lend it you.  Now tell me what you'll
do with it," said Jim.

Mr Harris rubbed his hands together.  "I vill let it
for advertisements.  It vill be an 'oarding.  I vill let it
to one of those contractors--it vill be a fine 'oarding.
It vill not 'urt you, and it vill bring me money."

"Where do *I* come in?" demanded Jim, laughing.

"Vy, it vill '*elp* you, my dear doctor.  People will
look at the 'oarding, and then they vill see your
plate, and then they vill come in for advice, and
you'll make a fortune, doctor dear--all through me!
Vy, you ought to pay me for the idea!"

"I hadn't thought of it in that light," said Jim,
much amused.

The old dealer chuckled with glee.  "Ah, my son
Isaac!" he cried, "you shall sing yet vith the uzzer
side of your mouth.  I shall 'ave money.  The
evenin' paper shall come--*Isaac* vill mark the 'orses
now--'e will back them, *and I vill back vot 'e backs*.
Then ve vill see!"

"That will be a cute dodge--if it comes off!"
said Jim.

"Come off--it *must*!" cried the old man, with the
fatalism of the confirmed gambler, "it can't '*elp* itself!
Aha!  And then ve vill see, Isaac my son, *ve vill see*!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A PIECE OF NEWS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A PIECE OF NEWS.

.. vspace:: 2

Jim went to work on the ex-pawnbroking establishment
with marvellous energy.  He had bank-notes in
his pocket, and a compelling personality which duly
influenced the workmen he engaged to make the
necessary alterations.  In a few days his surgery
was ready, and the door of it adorned with a neat
brass plate bearing his name.

Koko called and ran a critical eye over the place.
"It'll do," he said; "now go ahead and cut out old
Taplow."

"Well, it's all your idea," said Jim, "and carried
out with your money, old man.  By the way, many
thanks for the loan.  You bolted off in such a hurry
the other day that I'd no time----"

"Had to go to a trotting match," explained Koko,
briefly.

Jim was rather surprised himself at the way he
had "got to work."  In the morning he went off to
his surgery full of zest and expectancy; his duties
interested him keenly.  True, very few people came
to him to be doctored, but Jim had a stout heart,
and thoroughly believed that he would be able to
work up a good practice--in time.  At present the
folks round there went to the surgery they were used
to--Dr Taplow's.  They were yet to learn what Jim
was made of.  The man Taplow had "put in" was
ten years older than Jim--bearded and serious, with
a grave, telling manner, behind which lay
(apparently) a wealth of knowledge.  Jim's extreme
youthfulness was against him.  The ladies of the
neighbourhood declared that they weren't going to
be doctored by a boy like that, and Taplow's new
man throve in consequence.

But Jim Mortimer did not lose heart.  Before him
was Dora's face--this was the beacon that guided
him and gave him hope.  Dora--with whom he
merely exchanged a few words daily!  And so he
plodded on his rounds, with Dora's eyes, as lanterns,
lighting the path that he trod.


The rough whom Jim had laid out in the fashion
already described had not forgotten the incident.
He had a sturdy band in the neighbourhood at his
call, and one night, as Jim was issuing from a house
in the Blackfriars Road, he found an ill-favoured ring
of louts about him.  Not a policeman was in sight,
but a man was hosing down the pavement.  Quick
as thought, Jim made a dash for the hose, and,
seizing it, turned it upon the Hooligans.  The
volume of water scattered them in all directions,
and Jim, smiling, returned the hose to the
road-cleaner with many thanks and a tip.

But the human scum of which this Hooligan band
was composed was not easily daunted.  It was equal
to almost any atrocity--any meanness.  It could
kick a policeman's head in, and steal his cape; it
could waylay old men, rob them, and leave them
half dead in the gutter.  This scum could plan out
its forays with deliberation and cunning.  It could
watch a man pace his way homewards on Monday
and Tuesday, and let him go scatheless, but it
would have him on Wednesday in some dark corner.

A less courageous man than Jim would have
thrown up the sponge and retired to a safer
neighbourhood.  But Jim held on.  They broke his
red lamp and smashed his windows, but he merely
requisitioned the services of a glazier, and hammered
half the life out of a ruffian whom he found, a few
nights later, about to put the knob of his stick
through the new lamp.  And so the Hooligans came
to learn that the new doctor in Mount Street--the
bearded man, curiously enough, they let severely
alone--was made of about the sternest stuff they
had ever encountered, and they saw that they would
have to bide their time and watch most diligently
for an opportunity to be revenged on him.  But their
desire to get even with him never abated.  They
were just waiting, and they knew they would not
have to wait very long.

Jim used to reach the surgery in the morning
about ten.  Between one and two, or two and
three--according to his engagements--he had his lunch
at the emporium of Harris & Father, or at some
other eating-house situated near his work.  Tea was
served to him (when he was there to have it) by an
old dame whom he had engaged to look after the
house and do the cleaning.  This lady occupied a
couple of the upper back rooms, for Mr Harris, losing
no time in carrying out his hoarding scheme, had let
off the upper walls of the front to a bill-posting firm,
the result being that that portion of the
ex-pawnbroking establishment which faced the street
was soon covered with flaming placards drawing
attention to whatever melodrama was being played
at the local theatre.  As Mr Harris had anticipated,
these posters attracted much attention, and Mount
Street wayfarers stopped constantly to gape at the
thrilling scenes depicted in crude and aggressive
colours above Jim's surgery.  Not being aware of
Mr Harris's responsibility for this display, Mount
Street naturally conjectured that Jim Mortimer had
let off the walls on his own account; and so, while
some of its inhabitants expressed admiration for Jim's
cuteness, others declared that a doctor ought to be
above getting money in that way, adding that Taplow
didn't descend to such catchpenny tricks, which
showed that he could afford to do without them.

The posters were a source of constant amusement
to Jim himself, and he took a keen interest in the
weekly changes of the pictorial decoration of his
outside walls.  The men who came every Monday
to paste up new "bills" soon got to know the young
doctor, and one of them gruffly invited Jim to pay
a call on his father-in-law, who seemed unable to
throw off an obstinate attack of bronchitis.  Jim
promptly looked up the old man; after examining
him, he stripped him to the skin and rubbed him
all over with brandy.  "It'll be all right," said Jim,
"you'll see."  And it was, for the fierce spirit drew
out the inflammation, and within three days the
bill-poster's father-in-law was able to go downstairs.
The story of the cure, needless to say, was related
in every public-house in the district--and from that
hour more patients began to trickle into Mortimer's
surgery.

Jim went home for dinner, but returned to his
surgery directly the meal was over.  One night,
however, he did not go to the surgery, but, instead,
stayed at No. 9 and helped Frank with his
home-lessons.  They had the dining-room to themselves,
and were soon deeply immersed in the Rivers of
Europe.  Presently Dora peeped in--a little shyly,
it seemed to Jim--and Frank sang out: "I say,
Dora, this is a lark; come and see!"

For Jim had drawn a rough outline map of
Europe, and Frank was filling in the countries and
rivers, Jim holding the map proper before him and
coaching his pupil with characteristic energy.

"It waggles there," Jim said, as, Dora having
seated herself by her brother, Frank started on the
Danube, "and now it goes straight on.  Steady,
man--you're making it run over a mountain.  Now,
waggle it a bit more.  That's prime."

Frank enjoyed the lesson hugely, and presently
Dora drew a river--the Rhine--and won much
partial praise from Mr Mortimer.

After that Jim took Frank through his French
verbs, Dora flagrantly prompting her brother, and
from this they proceeded to English History, Jim
giving Frank a racy description of James the
Second's flight, and the causes leading up to it,
which somehow stuck in Frank's head to such effect
that on the following day he was awarded eighty
marks out of a possible hundred, and greatly
astonished his form-master by displaying such
unusual evidences of industrious preparation.

It was a happy evening--Jim never remembered
spending a happier--and Mortimer went to his work
next day with a light heart and a most tender
recollection of Dora drawing the course of a river
very incorrectly.

But such happy evenings as this had been do not
often occur in anybody's life--it is their unexpectedness
which gives them the charm which lingers in
one's memory.

Jim helped Frank on several occasions after that,
but Dora did not join them.  She was out, Frank
supposed, with Mr Jefferson.  Such announcements
filled Jim with forebodings which were to be realised
only too speedily.

One evening, when Jim had been established in
his new surgery about three weeks, Koko looked in.

"Hullo, Koko!"

"Hullo, Jim!"

Koko sat down and glanced about him.

"Business improving, Jim?"

"Things are looking better, thanks, old man."

"And as to No. 9?"

"Cold generally; variable breezes," was Jim's
weather report.

"He doesn't know yet," thought Koko.  Then he
added: "I met Miss Cook to-day."

"Oh, how is she?" said Jim, carelessly, as he went
on making up medicine.

"He ought to know," thought Koko, adding aloud:
"She's all right.  Gave me a bit of
information--about Dora."

Jim stared round at his friend with a blank look
on his face.  "Eh?"

"She took a fortnight to make up her mind.  She
accepted him yesterday, and was wearing his ring
to-day."

"Jefferson?"

Koko nodded a grave affirmative.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`KOKO IS THANKED`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   KOKO IS THANKED.

.. vspace:: 2

Dora often looked at her engagement ring.  It was
a beautiful ring, and had cost Mr Jefferson thirty
pounds.  Dora did not know this, but she knew it
was a very expensive and valuable ring, and she was
very proud of it.  She often looked at it--she was
for ever holding up her left hand and admiring this
lovely, shining, diamond ring--this ring which
glittered in dark places and flashed and twinkled
even when her hand was quite still.

Dora felt that she was a very lucky girl to have
a lover who could give her such a ring.  Her
stepmother had told her that she ought to consider
herself very lucky, and so Dora supposed that she
ought to.  Yes, it was a beautiful ring, and Dora
had blushed when Mr Jefferson had put it on her
finger and kissed her.  She felt that she was very
fond of Mr Jefferson.  Few girls, indeed, could boast
such a lover as he--good-looking, perfectly dressed,
the pink of politeness, and very much in love with
her.

She was sure now that she was fond of him.  He
had proposed to her quite suddenly one night as they
were driving home from the theatre.  Dora had been
considerably flurried by the suddenness of the
proposal, and had asked for time to consider her
answer.  Mr Jefferson had seemed a little put out
at her not accepting him at once, but with as good
a grace as he could muster he had consented to give
her the time she required in which to think him over,
and went off for a fortnight's shooting in Scotland.

During this period Dora gave the matter careful
consideration, and discussed it with her stepmother.
She did not do this very willingly, but Mrs Maybury
insisted on introducing the topic, she having been
informed by Mr Jefferson of the fact that he had
asked Dora to marry him.  Mrs Maybury pointed
out to Dora that she would, in all probability, never
get such a good offer again--that it would be the
wildest folly on her part to refuse Mr Jefferson.
What was she--Dora?  *A post-office clerk*!  Did
she wish to go on performing such drudgery?  Of
course not!  This was one of a thousand reasons
why she ought to accept Mr Jefferson!

As to the nine hundred and ninety-nine other
reasons--well, one of them that must occur to Dora
was the fact that her father was employed by the
Jeffersons.  It was in young Mr Jefferson's power
to put Mr Maybury in a much better position at the
office.  Dora must bear that in mind.

But apart from all this, she had always understood
that Dora was very fond of Mr Jefferson.  Had she
not accepted presents from him and accompanied
him to the theatre, to the Exhibition, to all sorts of
places?  In short, Dora had encouraged him in every
possible way, and Mrs Maybury was surprised--greatly
surprised--to hear that Dora had even asked
for time in which to consider her reply.  In Mrs
Maybury's opinion, Mr Jefferson had acted in a most
considerate manner; he would have been justified in
demanding an immediate "Yes" or "No."  As it
was, he had shown great forbearance.

Mrs Maybury had introduced the topic one
evening when Miss Bird and Mr Cleave were
present, as well as herself and Dora.  She supposed
that they both knew that Mr Jefferson had proposed
to Dora.  They would, therefore, be rather surprised
to hear that Dora had asked for time in which to
consider her answer.

"Ridiculous!" said Miss Bird.  "She ought to
write and accept him at once.  What do you say,
Mr Cleave?"

"Didn't quite catch----" replied Mr Cleave,
putting his hand up to his ear.

"I say she ought to write and accept him at
once!" howled Miss Bird.

Mr Cleave nodded rapidly.  "Yes, an admirable
offer.  A most temperate young man.  Yes--as you
say--at once!"

"I am sure, Mr Cleave, I can get on quite well
without your advice!" snapped Dora.

"My advice," said Mr Cleave, who only caught
the last word of her sentence, "is to accept him.
Yes, a good match.  A most temperate young man."

"It's got nothing to do with temperance," roared
Miss Bird.

Mr Cleave heard this remark--the people in the
next house probably did as well--and looked at Miss
Bird reproachfully.

"I hope you are not falling away from the
Cause?" he said.

"It's got nothing to do with the Cause!" bellowed
Miss Bird.  "What I say is, a bad husband is better
than no husband at all.  Even a pretty girl doesn't
get too many offers nowadays.  Mr Jefferson will
make a very good husband, and if Dora doesn't
accept him she'll be a fool!"

"You hear what Miss Bird says!" observed Mrs
Maybury, looking at Dora.

"*Thank* you," said Dora, in an icy voice, "I think
I can manage my affairs without assistance from
Miss *Bird*!"

With which declaration she flung off to bed.

Eventually, however, she accepted Mr Jefferson.
The argument that weighed with her most was that
by becoming engaged to Mr Jefferson she could not
help but benefit her father.  One of the first things
Mr Jefferson would do (asseverated Mrs Maybury),
after becoming engaged to Dora, would be to find
some way of bettering Mr Maybury's position at
the office.

It must be borne in mind, too, that Dora was by
no means indifferent to Mr Jefferson.  Had he
suddenly ceased to pay her attentions she would
have felt greatly hurt and annoyed, for she had
become accustomed to his society, and always
enjoyed herself very much whenever he took her out.

"Oh, Miss, what a *lovely* ring!" cried Mary, when
she saw the trinket with which Jefferson had clinched
the engagement; "oh! what gleamin' jools!  What
a rich gentleman he must be, Miss!  Dr Mortimer
couldn't give you a ring like that, Miss--he's too
poor!"

Dora, who had been allowing the little servant to
examine the ring (they were in her bedroom at the
time, which was bedtime), drew her hand away
sharply.

"Don't be so silly, Mary.  You really are very
stupid sometimes; you say such absurd things."

"I didn't mean anything, Miss," replied Mary, who
had really spoken quite innocently; "it only came
into my head, like."

"Then you have a very silly head!" exclaimed Dora.

Mary was going out of the room when Dora called
her back.

"I'm so tired, Mary.  Would you mind brushing
my hair for me?"

"Of course I will, Miss," cried Mary (who had
been pattering about since six in the morning); "I
always *love* to do things for you, Miss!"

Dora sat down in front of the looking-glass, and
Mary took her hair down and combed it and brushed
it, "just like a grand lady's," as she said.

"I expect you'll have your own maid when you're
married to Mr Jefferson, Miss," added Mary.

Dora made no reply.  She was thinking--and the
poor overworked little servant, with her woman's
instinct, divined her thoughts.

"Don't you think, Miss," she said, presently,
"that Dr Mortimer's thinner than when he first
came?"

"Oh, I haven't noticed it," said Dora, carelessly.

"*I* have," returned Mary.

She brushed away vigorously without speaking
for some little time, and then she said: "I wonder if
he's in love, Miss!"

"Who?" demanded Dora, quite unnecessarily.

"Why, Miss, Dr Mortimer!"

"How should *I* know!" cried Dora.  "Please be
quick, Mary--I'm so tired."

"I sometimes think that he is," continued the
sentimental little servant, "by the look in his eyes,
Miss.  I should think," added Mary thoughtfully
"that he would be a very faithful lover, like the
knights and barons you read of in books.  Don't
you think so too, Miss?"

"What idiotic things you say, Mary!" cried Dora,
impatiently.  "There, I think you've brushed my
hair quite enough.  Thank you very much."

"Quite welcome, Miss," said the little servant;
"Good-night, Miss!"

"Good-night, Mary."


The diamond ring, twinkling and flashing, attracted
a good deal of attention at the post-office.
The other clerks went into raptures about it, and told
Dora that she was a very lucky girl.  Everybody--it
seemed to Dora--said she was a lucky girl.  Dora
did not altogether appreciate being informed so
frequently of her stupendous luck.  After all, this
ring was only the symbol of a bargain.  Was she
not giving herself in exchange for it?  She did not
put the matter to herself quite in these words, but
this was the drift of her reflections on the subject.
Why should she be considered so very, very lucky?

Miss Cook and she got away from the post-office
early one afternoon.

"We will have a nice tea somewhere," said Dora;
"I will treat you, dear."

"Shall we go to tea with Mr Somers?" suggested
Miss Cook.

"Mr Somers!  But he will be out."

"No, he won't.  I saw him last night at the house
of some friends of mine, and he told me he would
be in to-day.  I knew we should get off early to-day,
and so I asked him," added Miss Cook, a little
shamefacedly.

Dora sighed.  She was fond of Miss Cook, and she
was afraid that Mr Somers was never likely to take
a fancy to her friend.

"Very well, dear; we will go and see Mr Somers."

They turned their steps, therefore, in the direction
of the Adelphi, where, along a modest terrace, Koko
did dwell.

Presently Dora said: "What friends did you go
to see last night, Rose?"

"Oh, some old friends of ours--not at all grand.
He is a bookseller."

"I suppose he has all the new novels.  I wonder
if he ever reads them!"

"He doesn't have any new novels, Dora.  He is a
second-hand bookseller.  He deals in all sorts of old
books."

"Oh!" said Dora.  "Mr Somers is very fond of
collecting old books, isn't he?"

"Yes, he has found some very good ones in the
twopenny boxes--you know--the boxes which they
mark 'THIS LOT 2d.'"

Dora laughed.

"Does Mr Somers go routing about for old books
in those boxes?"

"Yes; he has made several 'finds,' as he calls
them.  My friend bought some from him a short
time ago."

"What! has he been selling them again?"

"Yes; I wonder why!  He called on my friend
quite late one night, and sold him twelve very
valuable books.  He got fifty pounds for them.  I
wonder why he sold them--he is so fond of his
old books!  But here we are!  Isn't it a queer,
musty old place!"

Koko received the girls with a smile of genuine
pleasure.  He bustled about and got tea for them,
and then Dora played to them both on a very
old but still tuneful piano that Koko had picked up
at a sale years since.

Then, while Miss Cook sat down and tried to
pick out a march on the piano, Koko showed Dora
his treasures, and spent quite a time telling her
little anecdotes as to how this book and that
book had come into his possession.  While he
talked, Dora was putting two and two together.
She remembered how amazed Jim had looked when
Koko said he was going to set up in Mount street,
and she remembered how Koko had hurried away
in the middle of dinner.  She understood now
why he had done so.

"Some have gone from here," said Dora, pointing
to a gap in one of the shelves.

"Yes," said Koko, in an off-hand way, "I have a
clear-out occasionally."

"Did you sell them?" she asked.

"Rather--I don't give my books away."

"And did you get a good price for them?"

"Fair," said Koko; "yes, a fair price."

Miss Cook ended up with a loud and inharmonious
chord, and rose from the piano.

"Come, Dora--we must be going."

"Oh, don't go yet," urged Koko.

"We must--it is getting late, and Dora is expected
at home.  Good-bye, Mr Somers."

They shook hands, and Miss Cook sauntered out
into the passage.

And now Dora had to say good-bye.

"Mr Somers--I know why you sold those books.
You wanted to help Dr Mortimer."

Koko gazed at her for a few moments without
speaking, and then said, quite simply: "Yes, I did.
Jim's my best friend.  I'd do anything to help him."

.. _`"HE'S MY BEST FRIEND," SAID KOKO.`:

.. figure:: images/img-126.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "HE'S MY BEST FRIEND," SAID KOKO.

   "HE'S MY BEST FRIEND," SAID KOKO.

As he spoke, his glance wandered to the
half-emptied shelf.  Much as he loved his old books,
however, he did not regret his recent sacrifice.

"You are a very good man, Mr Somers--very
kind and good.  I only wish," she added, with
demure hesitation, "that I were a little younger,
for then it would be quite proper for me to--to
kiss you."

"Are you coming, Dora?"  Miss Cook was
growing impatient.

Koko turned to Dora with a smile and took
her hand.

"If *I* were a little younger, perhaps it would not
be proper," he said gently, "but as I'm ever so much
older than you, don't you think that----"

"Why, yes," said Dora, and, bending swiftly, she
kissed him.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`JIM'S PATIENTS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   JIM'S PATIENTS.

.. vspace:: 2

Thereafter, watching his friend closely, Koko
observed a gradual change overcoming Jim.  Often
enough Jim's merry smile flashed up, 'tis true, but
when it died away the normal expression it left on
his face was not quite what it had been of yore.
There was a wistfulness in Jim's eyes nowadays that
Koko had never seen there before.

This change made clear to Koko the fact that
Jim's medical student cubbishness had largely taken
wing.  Jim was no longer Fortune's spoilt boy.
The outline of his face was less round, his features
were more distinctive, his chin seemed set in a
firmer mould, and the soft lines about the corners of
his mouth, though still apparent, were not so soft as
they had been but a few months since.

Koko was particularly struck by the alteration
in Jim when, after a fortnight's absence in the
country, he looked the Long 'Un up at his surgery
one evening in the latter part of November.

Jim greeted his friend warmly, offered him a cigar,
poked up the fire, and then, by way of avoiding more
awkward topics, began to talk about his work.

He had much of interest to relate of his daily
rounds, and Koko, listening in the kind of way that
is so helpful to a talker--that is to say, with
unassumed appreciation--realised that Jim had
indeed tackled a hard nut in the Mount Street
district.  For Jim had to go into such slums as
your apple-faced peasant in the wide, wind-blown
shires would not live in rent free.  In these foul
places herded scum from across the seas that gloried
in its filth, and regarded decent quarters with positive
repugnance.  Jim had to make his way through
crooked alleys into crime-infested courts--into courts
where no policeman would go unaccompanied by
a fellow.  Jim went alone, however, trusting to luck
and his two good fists to get out again in the event
of his meeting a hostile gang of Hooligans.

Jim told Koko of a squalid room he had that day
been into which contained four separate families--each
family occupying a corner.

Koko smiled.  "I suppose they don't mind it?"
he said.

"Mind it!" cried Jim.  "Why, they like it, man!
Being a lot in a room keeps them warm.  They're
company for each other.  When number one family
has a scrap with number two, three and four look on
and applaud.  Nice friendly arrangement--eh?"

"Don't some of these scraps turn out seriously?"

"Sometimes.  The fellow who showed me up to-day
is known to have killed a man in a scrap--but
he got off by some queer hitch in the evidence.  A
very civil spoken chap--burglar by profession."

Koko opened his eyes.  "A bit different from
taking fees in Harley Street?" he said.

"Not so remunerative, but more exciting,"
returned Jim.  "The other day," he added, "I was
attending a woman, when her husband came up
with a crowbar and told me to stand aside, as he
wanted to 'finish' her."

"What did you do?"

"Asked him to wait till I'd done with her.  He
said he would if I'd have a drink, so we had some
gin together, and then he lay down in a corner,
saying he'd finish her after he'd had a nap.  The
lady told me not to worry, as he'd be as gentle as
a lamb when he'd slept his drink off.  She
understood him, you see."

"She'd a fine nerve," commented Koko.

"Another time," continued Jim, "I was called to
see an old chap who lived by himself in a garret.
He'd got D.T.s very hot indeed, and was sitting up
in bed with the counterpane covered with sovereigns
and bank-notes.  There must have been hundreds of
pounds there.  Miser, I suppose.  When I arrived he
was holding conversations with imaginary relatives
who were evidently (in his opinion) after his cash.
He was threatening one with a revolver, and calling
him all sorts of purple names.  It was the revolver
business which made the other people in the house
send for me.  To oblige him, I threw his imaginary
relatives out of the window, and told him they'd
fallen on their heads in the court below.  That
pleased him, and he said he would like to reward
me for my trouble.  I thought he was going to
press a tenner on me, but instead he asked me if
I could change half-a-sovereign.  I said I could,
and he then gave me half-a-crown."

Koko chuckled joyously.  "And after that?"

"Then a few dozen more imaginary relatives came
in, and I threw them all out of the window.  After
a bit of a struggle with himself he gave me another
shilling for doing this, and then I sent him to a
hospital, money and all, and there he croaked, and
now they can't find a single real relative to take
over his property."

Jim discoursed for some time about his experiences,
but at length Koko had to hasten away to fulfil an
engagement, and so Jim locked up his surgery and
bent his steps homewards.

Trudging down Blackfriars Road, he found a
barrel-organ playing at the point where a by-street
branched off in the direction of Derby Crescent.
Jim loved a barrel-organ, and stopped to listen to
this one.  The organ-grinder had chosen a good
pitch, in the glare of a great electric lamp-post.
There was a small crowd of wayfarers watching a
number of little girls dancing in front of the organ.
Jim watched them too, and was delighted with the
performance, for the little maids danced with
thorough enjoyment and kept perfect time.  One
or two couples of grown-up girls were waltzing to
the music--although the organ wasn't playing a
waltz--but Jim was not interested in these.

Jim had visited many a music-hall in the company
of Koko, the red-haired student at Matt's, and others,
and had frequently watched the skilful gyrations of
trained ballet-dancers, but it seemed to him that
this queer little dance, with the heavens for a roof
and a muddy wood-block road for a floor, was a
much better dance than any he had seen in a
music-hall.  The organ played a merry tune--full of
straightforward melody--and Jim was quite infected
with it.  He began to wonder when he had last
danced--when he would dance again.  And meanwhile
he watched the little maids, and smiled at
the earnest way in which they tripped in and out
among each other, quite in the proper style and
order; and he gave a shilling to the Italian woman
who came round to collect.

As Jim listened to the music and watched the
dainty steps of the little street dancers, he felt
genuinely happy.  The scene pleased him; it chased
the wistfulness from his face, and he felt loth to
continue his walk homewards.  He was interested.
These people around him were his people now;
these people were his patients.  Poor they
were--starving, some of them--and he was their doctor.
Had matters fallen out otherwise, it would have
been his destiny to attend a very different class of
patient.  He would, in all probability, have assisted
his grandfather--have ridden a horse, worn the best
of clothes, and eaten and drunk "like a lord."  He
would have hunted and shot, and lived the life of
a country gentleman, with just enough work to do
to prevent himself from experiencing ennui.  But
instead of that he was fighting for an existence in
Mount Street--among the poorest of the poor.  No
hunting, no shooting, no old port; it was grim
fighting in Mount Street--hard work and a hard
life--hardly earned money and money hard to get,
even when he had earned it.

Still, he reflected, he *lived*.  It was life--he lived
strenuously.  He was working in the heart of the
greatest city in the world; he was living a man's
life.  Wasn't this, after all, better than lolling round
a ready-made practice?  Of course, that was good
work, useful work--but this work in Mount Street
was on a different plane.  It was sheer fighting,
and Jim, being a "scrapper" by nature, was filled
with a feeling of fierce joy.  He knew that he had
played the fool, and that this was the penalty.  But
it was a penalty of a mixed kind, for it was a test
which he relished.  It was a test which would have
knocked out a weak man, but Jim felt that he was
getting a firmer foothold every day he trod the
grimy pavement leading to his surgery.

Presently the little girls stopped--panting--and
the organ-grinder dropped his handle.  It was time
he moved on.

So it was over, and Jim found himself feeling
sorry.  The other onlookers strolled away, and
Jim was turning down the by-street, when he felt a
touch on his arm, and looked round to find Dora
Maybury by his side.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN THE CRESCENT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN THE CRESCENT.

.. vspace:: 2

This was the first time Jim had met Dora all by
herself without the stronghold--No. 9, to wit.  And
there he had found few opportunities to say anything
to her that was not formal and commonplace; indeed,
their intercourse, with watching eyes and listening
ears about them, had been (to Jim, at any rate) of a
gallingly circumscribed character.

It is poor satisfaction, when the heart is hungry,
to look into the eyes one loves, and remark that it
is colder than it was yesterday; your lover is kept
on conversation's shortest commons when, though
burning to say a thousand tender things to the one
girl he holds most precious, he has, perforce, to
hazard a remark to the effect that there may be
rain before morning.

Thus it was with Jim.  He often saw Dora, but
seldom spoke with her.  There was that evening
when she drew the course of the Rhine under his
tutelage--but that was a memory by itself--a verdant
oasis in the desert of verbal starvation!

It may be easily imagined, therefore, how fast beat
Jim's heart when he found himself absolutely
alone--and unwatched--with Dora Maybury.

"Have you too been listening to the organ?" he
asked.

"Yes," said Dora, "I was there when you came
up.  I have been shopping.  Frank came out with
me, but disappeared."

Jim devoutly hoped that Frank would not reappear.
Dora was carrying a heavy marketing-net--the
shops keep open late in Blackfriars Road--and Jim
promptly possessed himself of this.

"Frank ought to have been carrying it," explained
Dora, as they walked down the by-street, "but," she
added, "you know what brothers are!"

"I have heard accounts of them," said Jim, "but
can't speak from experience, as I haven't any."

"Nor sisters?"

"Nor sisters either," said Jim; "nobody, in fact,
but a grandfather."

"Dear me!" said Dora, "what a very lonely boy
you must have been!  I suppose your grandfather
is very fond of you?"

"I think he has a sort of mild affection for me,"
said Jim, "but unfortunately I offended him when
I--er--when I was put on *The Total Abstainers* black
list."

Dora seemed interested.

"And what did he do?" she inquired.

"He behaved in a manner that was not even
mildly affectionate."

"And you don't see him now?"

Jim admitted that that was so.

"But perhaps he will make it up at Christmas-time,"
suggested Dora.  "He ought to."

Jim shook his head.

"My grandfather is not the sort of man to do
anything because he ought to."

"Oh, I hope he will," said Dora; "it must be so
wretched for you--having nobody."

"You are very kind," said Jim, his voice suddenly
changing.

"But surely," said Dora, quickly, "anybody would
be sorry for a man who had nobody in the world to
care for him."

Jim made no rejoinder.  So Dora, meaning only
to make him feel that she sympathised with his
position, said again that she hoped all would be
right between him and his grandfather by the time
Christmas came.

"But you have friends," she continued, comfortingly;
"there is Mr Somers, and Sir Savile and I
know my father likes you--oh yes, you have friends.
You must not be disheartened.  You must look upon
us all as your friends, Dr Mortimer."

"I did not mean to extract all this sympathy from
you, Miss Dora," said Jim.  "I was only answering
your questions."

"But I am glad you have told me," said Dora,
"because I did not know all this about you before.
And I am so sorry for people who have no home," she
added, gently.

So spoke this maid, barely nineteen, in the
innocent warmth of her nature.  She could not have
remembered that a man can bear taunts, abuse,
sarcasm, and show a smiling front, but that the least
word of sympathy will break down the same man's
defences and leave his heart--hardened to all
else--without a shield.

"You are too kind," said Jim again; "it would be
better, perhaps, if you were not kind to me at all."

Then a silence fell upon them, and in silence they
passed from the by-street into the crescent, whose
glory was so faded.  They walked by several of the
shabby houses, still without speaking, but as they
drew near to No. 9, the question Dora wanted to ask
would not stay within her lips.

"Why?" she said, without looking at him.

"Because," replied Jim, steadily, "I love you.
That is why it will be the kindest thing on your
part never to be kind to me again."

As Jim spoke, Dora gazed up at him in a surprised,
half-frightened manner.  When she said "Why?"
she knew very well that there was no need on her
part to ask such a question.  Her woman's instinct
told her "why"; there was no need for Jim to do so.
But, with a wilful disregard of conscience, which bade
her not inquire too closely into Jim's reasons for
that little speech, she had allowed her lips to shape
the word that had extracted so blunt a confession
from her companion.

Even had she not been engaged to Jefferson, Jim's
avowal, considering the length of their acquaintance
and the very small amount of conversation they had
enjoyed together, would have been ill-timed and
premature.  As matters stood, Jim had no possible
right to speak thus.  But she had asked "Why?"
and he had told her.

Jim himself, as soon as he had spoken, condemned
himself for a fool, an ass, and an idiot.  This would
put an end to any little friendship that might have
hitherto existed between them.  What could he do
to mend the sorry mistake his tongue had made?

He was the first to break the awkward silence.
He laughed.  Dora, on the other hand, bit her lip
nervously.

"Please don't take me too seriously, Miss Dora,"
said Jim.

"So," said Dora, confronting him with dignity and
flaming cheeks, "I am to regard what you said just
now as a joke?"

"Well--if you like," replied Jim, rather awkwardly.

"Then I think you are very rude!" exclaimed
Dora, "and I won't speak to you again."

She turned abruptly toward the steps leading up
to the door of No. 9.

"Oh, I say, come now," expostulated Jim, "I think
that is a little too severe.  You asked 'Why?' and
I told you 'Why!'"

Dora switched round to him and turned a very red
little face, illuminated by eyes that flashed with
anger, up to his.

"You had no right to say what you did just now,
because you know I am engaged to Mr Jefferson----"

"Lucky man?" sighed Jim.

"Are you still regarding me as a person just to be
joked with?" demanded Dora, with something like
a sob in her voice.

"No," said Jim, earnestly, "as a girl to be loved
for ever and ever!"

Jim's astonishing comprehensiveness struck Dora
dumb for a moment.  What *could* a girl do with a
man like this!

Dora considered what she could say that would
make a good rebuke.  And meanwhile she looked
(as Jim declared to himself) bewilderingly lovely.

"What you said, considering the circumstances,"
she continued at length, "was dishonourable and
ungentlemanly."

"I plead guilty on both counts," said Jim.

"And so," Dora went on, "I shall not speak to you
again--ever."

"I think," replied Jim, "that you are taking far
too harsh a view of the case.  If you will walk round
the crescent just *once* with me, I will try to put myself
right in your eyes."

"That you can never do," said Dora.  But, after
a moment's hesitation, she lifted her skirt and walked
on, and Jim, with an overflowing heart, paced along
by her side.

"I know you are engaged, of course," began Jim,
"and I know that I ought not to have said what I
did, that being the case."

"Then why did you say it?" demanded Dora,
with an imperious little stamp of her foot.

"I couldn't help it," said Jim; "you are so pretty.
You are the prettiest girl I have ever seen--the
prettiest, the daintiest, and the sweetest.  There is
nothing on earth I wouldn't do for you, even to the
laying down of my life, if that would serve you.  I
have loved you from the first moment I ever set eyes
on you, and I shall never love another girl as long
as I live."

Thus spoke Jim in the fulness of his heart, and
his words were as music in Dora's ears; for what
woman--worthy of the name--would be displeased
by such a confession?  That was Jim's speech--those
were Jim's sentiments--hackneyed sentiments
enough in all conscience, seemingly, and yet not
hackneyed at all, because they were quite fresh and
sincere.  He meant them, he felt them.  Never did
love speak more honestly.

Yet there was a ring on Dora's finger--a ring--an
emblem of her plighted troth.  And this ring seemed
to burn into her finger and reproach her for even
letting this other lover complete his declaration.

"You are making it worse and worse," she said,
but not at all crossly.

"Well," said Jim, "you know now.  You can tell
Jefferson what I've said if you like.  I've told you I
love you, and why.  I've got it off my mind, and I
shan't be so miserable now."

"Have--have you been miserable?" asked Dora,
very gently.

"Yes," said Jim.

"*Very?*"

"As miserable," said Jim, "as a man could be."

"Oh," said Dora, "I'm so sorry!  I suppose I
ought to be angry with you, but I don't see how I
can be when you--you like me so much."

Jim looked up at the sky with a mist in his eyes.
They walked on, and all too soon came round to
No. 9 again.

"Oh, if you please, give me my net," said Dora,
for all this time her purchases had been dangling
from Jim's left hand.  She had forgotten all about
them, and Jim had been quite unconscious of his
burden.

"Then," said Jim, as they stopped in the shadow
thrown by the porch, "you forgive me?"

"Yes, yes, entirely--on condition you never say
anything like that again.  And now give me my net."

"Here is the net," said Jim, "and here," as he
kissed her, "is something else."

"Oh, how dare you!" cried Dora, snatching at
her net and running up the steps with cheeks of
scarlet.

As for Jim, he diplomatically continued his walk
round the crescent.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MASTER HARRIS IS SHOWN OUT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   MASTER HARRIS IS SHOWN OUT.

.. vspace:: 2

One evening, a week or two later, Koko was sitting
with his short legs propped up over the Long 'Un's
surgery fire.  During a pause in the conversation
he observed Jim fumbling in his inner coat pocket.

"Twenty-five," said Jim, at length, handing his
friend that amount in bank-notes; "half what I
owe you."

"Don't bother about that yet," said Koko, tossing
them back.

"If you don't take them," said Jim, in a ferocious
tone, "I'll make you eat them."

"Try it on, you bully!" returned Koko, springing up.

Jim therefore squeezed the notes up into a round,
tight ball, and advanced upon the little man.

"Be careful, my son," said Koko; "if I hit you,
it'll hurt."

For answer Jim leapt forward like a bloodhound,
seized Koko by his coat-collar, and threw him on
to the floor.  Koko, however, nimble as a kitten,
wriggled through Jim's legs, overturning the Long
'Un in so doing, and with a dexterous movement
seated himself astride Jim's chest.

Jim puffed and fumed, and tried every trick he
could think of to throw off his assailant.  But Koko
was not easily beaten.  A rough-and-tumble with
Mortimer was nothing new to him.  For some time
he resisted Jim's efforts to dislodge him, and Jim
was getting redder in the face every moment.

"Make me eat 'em, will he!" cried Koko,
exultingly, addressing Tom, the big cat, who still
often followed Jim to the surgery, and was now
watching the struggle with grave impartiality.  "Not
a long lamp-post like this, without enough fat on
him to grease a cart-wheel!"

Now, it's an old sporting saying that a good big
'un is better than a good little 'un--it holds in
boxing, wrestling, and many other forms of athletics.
Koko was a good little 'un, but Jim was a good big
'un, and, though not of great girth, was immensely
strong in the arms and back.

There is also an old saying that you shouldn't
laugh till you're out of the wood.  Jim proved the
truth of both sayings on this occasion, for, just as
Koko finished his taunting speech, Jim clutched
him round the ribs, and, with a prodigious output
of nervous energy, threw the little man clean over
his head.

Koko flew crash into one of the rotten old
pawn-broking cupboards with which the place was lined,
and such was the force with which he was impelled
that his head and shoulders went right through
the door of the cupboard.  Before he could extricate
himself, Mortimer had pinned his hands to his sides.

"Will you give in?" demanded Jim.

"I will," murmured Koko from within the cupboard.

"And take what I owe you?"

"Yes--let me out of this old clo' hole, will you?"

"Certainly."

Thereupon, with a neat wrench, Jim liberated his
friend, and Koko rose to his feet, looking battered
and sorry for himself.

"You ought to know better than to scrap with
me, young fellow," said Jim; "you ought to know
it's no use."

Koko rubbed his bald head ruefully.  "Give me
a bran mash," he said; "that winded me."

"Right you are," said the Long 'Un, taking a glass
jar off one of the shelves.

"Steady!" cried Koko, observing the label on
the jar; "that's prussic acid."

Jim, however, got two tumblers and proceeded
to measure out a couple of drams.

"No--I keep my whisky in this jar," he said,
drawing some fresh water from the tap; "it's safer
here.  Mrs Brown, my old lady upstairs, has a
liking for whisky, and used to help herself out of
my bottle when I was out--so I got a clean jar,
put a prussic acid label on it, filled it with whisky,
and now she hunts in vain."

"Smart man, Jim," laughed Koko, who then
proceeded to roll out the notes and put them
carefully away in his pocket-book.

"You see," said Jim, when they had settled
themselves down by the fire, "I've been catching on
about here lately."

"Cutting out the bearded man?"

"Something like that.  I was going down Pine
Court soon after you last looked me up, when I saw
a group of women talking excitedly round a doorway.
I had a case on the top floor of the house.
'Wot I says is,' I heard a very fat woman remark,
'there ain't no symptoms to go by.  'E guessed it!'

"I always talk to these people, so, as I was
passing into the house, I said: 'Who guessed it?'  They
turned to me and began talking all at once,
and I gathered from their observations that the fat
woman's little girl was down with what our bearded
friend at Taplow's had diagnosed as small-pox.  It
appeared that he had made a report to the Medical
Officer of Health for this district, and that the
hospital people's ambulance was momentarily
expected.  The fat woman vehemently declared that
our bearded friend was wrong.  'What makes you
think it isn't small-pox?' I said.  'Why, doctor,'
says she, 'my Annie ain't been sick, eats 'earty, and
sleeps sound, and is well in 'erself.  'E only went
by the spots.' 'Well,' I said, 'they'll tell you at
the hospital whether it's small-pox or not.'  But at
that she began painting the air blue with her
language, and swore no ambulance men should
touch the kid.  After a time she asked me to look
at the child, but I explained that it was Dr Taplow's
case, and nothing to do with me.  She then asked
whether a lady couldn't take two doctors' opinions
on a case, and I replied that a lady certainly could.
'Well, then,' says she, 'why shouldn't a pore woman
like me?'  I recognised the justice of this, and,
after I'd been to my case, I took a look at the child.
I saw at once it wasn't small-pox----"

"The chicken variety?" put in Koko.

"Not even that--simply blood out of order.  I
told her the child wanted some medicine and more
fresh air.  As luck had it, the Medical Officer--old
Jackson--awfully nice chap--being scared by
the report, came with the ambulance himself, and
corroborated my verdict.  I had cleared off by then,
but the next time I went to Pine Court I found
myself famous, and ever since they've been coming
to me instead of to the bearded pard."

"Good," said Koko.  "Have you caught him
napping again?"

"Curiously enough, I have.  He told a woman
in Mount Street that her husband--a plumber--was
suffering from heart disease.  His feet were
swollen, and he was pretty bad all over.  However,
she wasn't satisfied, and came to me, and I found
the fellow really had a congested liver.  I dosed
him with calomel, and he was running up and down
ladders again in a few days."

"That was another ad.," said Koko.

"It was," said Jim.  "Have another two-penn'orth?"

Koko nodded, and Jim was reaching for the
mislabled bottle, when a quaint metal Chinaman, that
stood in the middle of the mantelpiece, fell with a
crash on to his face.

"Hullo!" cried Koko, much mystified, for neither
he nor Jim had touched the ornament.

Jim laughed.  "That's all right--shows there's
somebody at the front door.  You see there's a bell,
but my callers don't always use it.  Some of them
like to walk in, as the door opens when you turn
the handle.  I've fixed up an arrangement of string,
therefore, which causes that old geezer to fall down
when the front door is opened.  Quite simple.  I'll
show you the dodge in a minute."

Whilst he had been speaking, Jim had popped
the prussic acid jar on its shelf, and opened the
door communicating with the waiting-room.

"Ah, Mr Harris!  Good evening!  Come in!"

The old provision dealer--for it was he--walked
into the surgery.  Koko made as if he would
withdraw, but Jim motioned to him to stop.

"I'm pretty near done, doctor," said Mr Harris,
sinking wearily into a chair; "my 'ead feels as if
my 'air was bein' brushed more than ever.  And
that velp--'e's gettin' more a caution every day.
'E tumbled to my game, and marked the wrong
'orses for me to back--and my money's all gone.
Yes, vot vith 'im and my 'ealth, I vish I vos dead."

"You don't get enough fresh air, Mr Harris,"
said Jim.

"Fresh air!" cried the old man; "no, not a
mouthful.  Not likely.  That boy--that son of
mine--Isaac--'e's a 'eartless young 'ound.  Keeps
'is old father vorkin' and vorkin' from seven in the
mornin' till ten at night.  Fresh air!  Vy, I falls
asleep in my chair ven I've locked up the shop!"

Koko and Jim looked sympathetic, but made no
comment.

"Now 'e's boss," proceeded the old dealer--"now
'e's '*Arris*, and I'm only the *Father*, there's no end
to the airs he gives 'isself.  Wears a red veskit and
a big chain and a norty turn-down collar like vot
the swells vear, and a check soot vich 'e got second-'and
from a bookmaker.  There's no 'oldin' 'im!"
declared Mr Harris, with a groan.

He paused a moment to wag his head sorrowfully,
and then again took up the tale of his woes.

"So vot vith Isaac, and vot vith this 'air brushin'
a-always goin' on on the top of me 'ead, I feel
pretty near like throwin' myself inter the river and
settlin' it all that vay.  Not that Isaac vould
care--not 'e!  'E'd bury me as cheap as possible, and
think it 'ard lines I vosn't voshed out to sea instead
of bein' brought 'ome to cause 'im expense!"

"Well, well," said Jim, soothingly, "I'll give you
some medicine that'll make you feel very much
better, Mr Harris.  You're run down, and that's
why you feel so despondent."

"The real reason vy," continued Mr Harris, as
Jim got up to prepare the medicine, "I don't do
avay vith myself *is*, I vant to stay by Isaac's side
and go on varnin' 'im agen Rebecca Nathan.  She's
a designin' minx--she's just leadin' Isaac on to get
vot she can out of 'im."

"What--has your son got a young woman?"

"*Young* voman!  Vy, she's older than Isaac by
ten years, and Isaac's twenty-four.  'E's infatooated,
is Isaac.  'E leans 'er photograrf agen the corfee
pot an' sighs venever 'e looks at it, and 'e puts it
just vare 'e'll see it ven 'e vakes in the mornin'.
'E bought her a flash diamond brooch, but she
noo better than to be took in that vay, so 'e 'ad
to buy 'er a real one.  She's the sharpest bit of
female-goods in Mount Street--father keeps the
fried-fish shop by the 'Lord Nelson.'"

"I know the place," said Jim.

"'Eaps o' money," continued Mr Harris, "but do
you think my son Isaac vill ever get even a *sniff*
at it?  Not 'e!  Rebecca Nathan vill marry a
gentleman, doctor dear--she's only *usin*' Isaac!"

"Here's the medicine, Mr Harris.  Take a
wine-glassful after each meal."

"Vell, I don't believe any medicine in the vorld
vill do me any good," said Mr Harris, "but I'll
take it, so it von't be vasted.  Yes, I'll be gettin'
back now.  That velp Isaac, 'e's goin' to take
Rebecca to a music-'all--yes, in the two-bob seats.
'E never spent more than sixpence on a seat in
'is life before.  Larst veek 'e took 'er to 'ave 'er
'ead told by a phrenologist feller, and then 'e 'ad 'is
own told, and came 'ome with it all swelled up
because the phrenologist said 'e 'ad a big bump of
locality and noo 'is vay about."

At that moment the surgery bell rang, and directly
after the little Chinaman fell bang on to his nose.

Jim opened the door of communication.

"It is your son," he informed Mr Harris.  "Come
in," he added, addressing the caller.

The senior partner of the firm of Harris & Father
strutted into the surgery.  For Mount Street, his
attire was resplendent, though, to be sure, the suit
he had bought from the bookmaker seemed a couple
of sizes too large for him.

"Fader," he said, irritably, "'ow much longer am I
to vait?"

"I'm comin', Isaac, I'm comin'," replied the old
Jew, putting on his hat and seizing his medicine
with trembling hands; "I vos only takin' a little
advice for my 'ealth, Isaac."

"You vos takin' all the evenin' to take it," snapped
Isaac; "come on--quick!"

The old man nodded hurriedly to Jim and Koko,
and left the surgery.

The young Jew turned to Jim.

"See 'ere," he said.  "Ven my fader comes 'ere,
send him 'ome sharp.  That's 'is place--'ome."

"Your father is not at all well," said Jim, "so
when he comes here I shall allow him to stay as
long as he likes, if that is any comfort to him."

"You've a nice sauce," said Master Harris, who
felt very brave in his loud toggery.

For reply, Jim inserted one finger inside Master
Harris's collar, conducted him (held thuswise) to
the front door, and shot him into the street.  And
when Jim discovered that Miss Rebecca Nathan was
waiting outside for Master Harris, and thus witnessed
the latter's discomfiture, he laughed a great laugh,
and walked back to the surgery little thinking that
his short way with Isaac Harris was destined to bring
dire ill upon himself.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HARD PRESSED`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   HARD PRESSED.

.. vspace:: 2

On the day preceding the departure of the students
from Matt's for the brief Christmas vacation, things
were very lively indeed at the hospital.

Soon after breakfast, Tom Deadwood, one of the
most dissipated characters connected with the
institution and Teddy Mildmay, his faithful henchman
and boon companion--celebrated for his speed of
foot, being, in fact, an old Cambridge "blue"--walked
into the house-surgeon's room looking bleared
and dishevelled.  Their story was that they had
careered about London in a four-wheel cab (and
occasionally on the top of it), with frequent stops
for refreshment, until the small hours of the morning,
and finally found themselves in the vicinity of
Covent Garden market.  Here Tom, who was a
"bruiser" of parts, tackled a gigantic porter, and
after (according to his own account) "slaying" this
worthy, fought two other men, Mildmay contenting
himself with inspiring his friend with bits of ring
wisdom, and at the conclusion of each combat
demanding cheers for the reigning monarch.

Eventually a policeman hove in sight in one
direction, and three others in three other directions,
and then there ensued a chase of a most varied and
engrossing description, the market porters, who took
a sporting interest in the matter, giving the fugitives
many tips as to the best way to run in order to avoid
capture.  Mildmay, had he been by himself, could
have escaped easily, so fleet of foot was he, but Tom
Deadwood was blown by his series of scraps with
the porters, so in the end they were captured and
afforded a night's lodging at Bow Street
police-station.  At breakfast-time they were allowed to
depart, Mr Deadwood having told the superintendent
that his mother, who had not seen him for five years,
was expecting him home early in the afternoon.
The superintendent grimly gave it as his opinion
that the colour of her boy's eyes and the state of his
nose would give the poor lady a bit of a shock.
Having told their story to the Matt's staff, they
cleaned themselves and sallied forth in search of
breakfast.  After this they settled themselves down
to a long morning's beer and billiards.  Returning
to the hospital about one o'clock, they found the
red-haired student, who has already figured in this
story, marshalling a number of his fellows preparatory
to leading them out for a slight midday snack.

Having lined them up in single file--Messrs
Deadwood and Mildmay taking their places at the
end of the line,--the Welshman placed himself at
the right hand of No. 1, and gave the word to
"Quick--March!"

In perfect order and comic solemnity the students
tramped out of the hospital precincts, wheeled into
the road, and proceeded along the extreme outside
of the pavement until they arrived at an A B C
shop.  Obeying the word of command on the instant,
and still preserving splendid order, they wheeled into
the establishment--their captain holding the door
open for them--and took their seats at a group of
tables.

The red-haired one approached a waitress.

"Sixteen scones, sixteen butters, and sixteen cups
of coffee!"

The giggling girl having provided these refreshments,
the students fell to, and very soon the order
was repeated.  The Welshman then collected eleven-pence
from each man and paid the score, the extra
penny a head being levied as a douceur for the
waitress.  The students having re-formed in line,
the red-haired leader marched them back to Matt's
in the circumspect manner that had characterised
their outward journey.

At tea-time came another march out and home,
and at seven the Welshman conducted his warriors
to a restaurant, where, bearing in mind the fragile
nature of the two previous meals, he ordered sixteen
steaks, sixteen helps of two "veges," sixteen hunks of
bread, sixteen tankards of bitter ale, sixteen portions
of currant pudding, sixteen slices of cheese, sixteen
pats of butter, and sixteen cups of coffee.

When they had consumed this homely but satisfying
meal, the Welshman again collected the amount
necessary to discharge the bill, with twopence extra
per diner for the waiter.  Then he once more
marched his men back to Matt's, there to deliberate
on further proceedings.

"Pity the Long 'Un isn't here," observed Mr
Deadwood, in the midst of the discussion; "he was
a fellow of great resource and suggestion.  Where's
he got to?"

"Jim," said the red-haired one, "is earning money
for a man named Taplow, once of this hospital.
That is the latest news of him, received in September
last."

"I thank you," said Mr Deadwood, with as much
dignity as his discoloured eyes and swollen nose
rendered possible; "your reply, friend of the Orange
Locks, is direct and lucid, but conveys little
information.  Speak further, Red Scalp, and put us on
his trail!"

Mr Deadwood was addicted to the use of highly
ornate language.  He insulted everybody in terms
that were clothed with plumage of a peculiarly
offensive nature.

"Jim's new pitch is in Mount Street, Blackfriars,"
observed a student who had been blessed by nature
with beetle brows and very irregular features.

"I thank you, Face," said Mr Deadwood, with
simple courtesy.

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

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

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

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

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

"Waiting for Jim," said the Welshman.

"What do you mean?  Who are you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The students looked ruefully at each other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Evening, guv'nor."

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

The Hooligan spat on the pavement.

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

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

"Saw a kid from the court fetch him."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Among the captured was the chief of the gang.

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

Mr Smith's reply need not be recorded.

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





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AFTER THE PLAY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   AFTER THE PLAY.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, Miss, wasn't the pantomime *lovely*?"

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

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

"Did he sing well?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Dora still sobbed upon his shoulder.

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

"Yes," said Dora.

"You have not quarrelled, I hope?"

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

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

"And you said?"

"And I promised that I would, father."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A MATTER OF WAGES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A MATTER OF WAGES.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.. _`"GOOD-NIGHT!"`:

.. figure:: images/img-174.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "GOOD-NIGHT!"

   "GOOD-NIGHT!"

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

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

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

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

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE WARNING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE WARNING.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He looks delicate," said Jim, grimly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The old man sank into a chair.

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

"They're pretty visible," said Jim.

"*Rebecca!*" explained the old man, in a hollow
voice.

"Miss Nathan?"

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

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

"*Father-in-law?*--not me!  She'll never marry
that velp Isaac.  She's about finished vith '*im*!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You think that?" inquired Jim, sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

The old man obeyed.

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

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

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

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

.. _`"TOUCH ME," I SAYS, "AN' I'LL RAP YOU OVER THE SKULL," I SAYS`:

.. figure:: images/img-186.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "TOUCH ME," I SAYS, "AN' I'LL RAP YOU OVER THE SKULL," I SAYS

   "TOUCH ME," I SAYS, "AN' I'LL RAP YOU OVER THE SKULL," I SAYS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE IVORY FAN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE IVORY FAN.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

"Five years," said Miss Bird.

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

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

"And you still wore it?"

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

"But you must have *hated* wearing it!"

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

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

"No," recommended Miss Bird, who probably felt
that she had shown a little too much of her human
side, "in those days girls didn't gad about on bicycles
and scamper after footballs and cricket balls like so
many boys.  Nor did they go to the theatre alone
with young men.  No, in my young days I wasn't
even allowed to look out of the window at people
passing along the pavement.  I was fined a shilling
if I did.  You may not believe that, but it's true!  I
was brought up very strictly by an aunt in a country
village, and I don't suppose anybody on this
earth--except a convict in prison, who deserves all he
gets, the rascal!--ever passed such a monotonous
existence as I did."

"How long did you live with your aunt?" asked
Dora, rather timidly.

"Until I was thirty," replied Miss Bird, "and then
she died and left me just enough to live on.  And
I've been living on that just enough ever since."

Miss Bird's customary conversation consisted of
harsh comments on current events or severe criticisms
of internal affairs at No. 9.  She had never been so
communicative regarding her past life before.

Dora employed herself with her sewing for a time,
and then observed: "I am afraid you cannot have
been very happy as a girl, Miss Bird.  Did--did you
ever see any young men?"

Miss Bird uttered a grating, unmusical laugh.  "I
saw the backs of a few in church."

"Was that all?"

"And occasionally talked to a curate at a croquet
party."

"How *dreadful*!" cried Dora.

"My aunt,", explained Miss Bird, "hated men!
She was jilted as a girl, and detested men ever
afterwards.  So I never spoke to any men--except
curates.  No man ever said a tender word to me--no
man ever lent me a book or wrote a poem to me,
or presented me with a bunch of flowers.  That was
my girlhood--and now, perhaps, you won't be so
surprised at my being a cross old woman!"

Dora, with a sweet impulse, dropped her sewing,
and, putting her arms round the elderly lady's neck,
kissed her on the cheek.

"I am so sorry you were unhappy," she said,
gently.

The grimness faded out of Miss Bird's face.  She
laid down her embroidery and took Dora's hand.

"My dear," she said, "that is all over and gone.
Still, I shall not forget what you said.  Some day
you may want a friend--a woman--and then you
mustn't be afraid to come to me.  My bark, child, is
worse than my bite....  There! now we mustn't
be sentimental any longer, but get on with our
work."

Dora therefore relapsed once more into her seat by
Miss Bird's side and resumed her sewing, and for
some time the silence was unbroken save by the
sound of stitching.

"When is the wedding, child?" asked Miss Bird,
suddenly.

"On the 26th," said Dora, bending rather more
closely over her work.

Miss Bird submitted the girl's profile to a severe
scrutiny.  "Personally," she said at length, "I don't
like the man."

"Who?" said Dora.

"Jefferson."

"But," Dora hastened to retort, "you were in
favour of my being engaged to him."

"I know more of him now," said the old maid,
"and in my opinion that young doctor's worth ten
of him."

Dora started, and her needle went into her finger.

"You pricked yourself then," jeered Miss Bird.

Dora said nothing.

"Because I mentioned *him*!"

"What *do* you mean, Miss Bird?" demanded
Dora, with cheeks afire.

Before Miss Bird could reply, however, the door
opened and Mr Cleave appeared.

"I hope--er--I hope I am not interrupting you,"
said the newcomer, with a slight cough; "that is to
say, you may be discussing some matter of
dress--ahem!--trust I am not *de trop*?"

"That's exactly what you *are*!" roared Miss Bird.

"Oh--er--ahem!--in that case I will retire----"

"If you please!" replied Miss Bird, sternly.

"Oh, Mr Cleave, of *course* you may come in!"
cried Dora, rising to her feet.  "In fact, I was just
going out----"

"That's a fib!" said Miss Bird.

But Dora had flown.  "Well, come in, come in,"
said Miss Bird; "come in and read your wretched
little paper----"

"Pardon?" inquired Cleave.

"Your *paper*!" howled Miss Bird; "your wretched
little rag of a paper that squeals like a pig when
anybody has a glass of beer."

"I--er--think--I--er--I think I will *not* come in
just now," bleated Cleave, retiring precipitately.

"Bah!" muttered Miss Bird, "everything's upside
down.  That man ought to be in skirts, and
Mortimer ought to be *shot* for not eloping with
Dora!"

.. vspace:: 2

And so the preparations for the wedding continued
apace.  Of course, economy had to be studied,
wherefore Mrs Maybury hired an industrious
seamstress to come and sew every day; and sew the
seamstress did, till her fingers ached.  Miss Bird
sat by and threw out hints; H. R. snapped at
Miss Bird, and Mrs Maybury snapped at H. R.
Finally, the two latter would snap at Dora, who,
after firing up at them, would retire to her bedroom,
presently descending softly to sit in the
drawing-room, the others being in possession of the
dining-room.

So passed this damp January time, and the
wedding day drew nearer and nearer.  Occasionally
Mr Jefferson appeared, very dapper and smiling, in
evening dress, and carried Dora off to a theatre.
But after these excursions, Dora would be very
silent, and slip off to her bedroom at the first
possible moment.

Mr Maybury and Dora had a quiet evening together
at the theatre.  They went to see a comedy--a
piece in which laughter and tears trod upon
one another's heels--a good little piece whose like
is not often seen on London boards.  They sat
hand-in-hand, as in the old days, this father and
daughter, and when it was all over, and they came
out into the street, their faces were sad.  For they
were to part soon--so soon.

One day Koko met Jim, by appointment, at
Charing Cross, and they both set off for Regent
Street to buy Dora a wedding present.

"I know a shop," said Jim; "bought some things
there at Christmas."

"Oh yes," said Koko, "you told me.  Very nice
dark girl there, eh?"

"I forget," said Jim, indifferently; "I daresay
there is.  Most of the girls in these shops are dark."

"I recollect you mentioned this one to me
particularly," said Koko.

"Did I?" replied Jim.  "Well, I daresay I did.
Anyhow, I haven't the faintest idea what I'm going
to get.  Been thinking about it for three weeks, too."

"Personally," said Koko, "I am going to buy her
a work-box."

"A *what*?"

"A work-box--full of pins and needles and tapes,
and all that sort of thing."

"I thought ladies used work-*baskets*," hazarded
Jim, vaguely.

"Boxes," said Koko.

"*Baskets*," insisted Jim; "work-*boxes* are a trifle
obsolete, I believe."

"Obsolete or not obsolete," said Koko, "I shall
get her a work-*box*."

"All right," returned Jim; "I don't care."

Koko stole a glance at Jim as they walked up
Waterloo Place.  He had noticed, of late, that Jim
was looking unusually gaunt and thin.  Koko felt
very sorry for his friend, for, in spite of the Long
'Un's lively manner, Koko saw that his old chum
was quite a different man now to the jaunty youth
who had been the life and soul of Matt's.

"I must get him away for a holiday," thought
Koko, in his quiet way; "this business has knocked
him over a bit."

They stood for some time outside the shop staring
at the array of presents in the window.  Koko was
staunch to his work-box, but Jim, after gazing into
the window for five minutes, was still quite undecided.
At length he declared he would leave it to the
dark girl.

.. _`JIM WAS STILL QUITE UNDECIDED.`:

.. figure:: images/img-196.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: JIM WAS STILL QUITE UNDECIDED.

   JIM WAS STILL QUITE UNDECIDED.

Koko walked in first, and, espying the dark girl,
approached her part of the counter.  Very soon a
dozen work-boxes lay before him, and he was not
long in making up his mind about one.  Then, true
to his programme, he had it well stocked with
everything that Dora could possibly require--even down
to a box of matches.

"You never know when you won't want matches,"
he explained to Jim.

"Well," said Jim, brusquely, "you've got your
work-box.  Now what about me?"

"Go ahead," said Koko; "there are about twenty
thousand things to choose from in this shop."

"A present for a lady?" queried the dark girl.

"Yes," said Jim; "a wedding present."

"I know the very thing," she said, and took down
from a shelf near by an ivory fan with forget-me-nots
painted by hand upon it.

"Yes, very pretty," agreed Jim; "but--er--I
should prefer some other kind of flower."

The dark girl fancied she understood.

"I have another ivory fan that is just as pretty as
this one.  I will get it."

The fan was brought.  Upon the pure ivory was
painted a little sprig of rosemary.

"'That's for remembrance,'" quoted Koko, softly.

And so Jim chose the ivory fan as a wedding
present for Dora.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`JIM CATCHES A TRAIN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   JIM CATCHES A TRAIN.

.. vspace:: 2

When old Dr Mortimer received Jim's Christmas
card, his face hardened into stone, and his first
impulse was to throw the little photograph into the
fire.  After Jim's final and crowning sin, the Doctor
had decided that he would have nothing more to
do with his grandson, whose hospital career had
been one long escapade, punctuated, at rare intervals,
with fits of steady reading.

Jim owed his qualification to his natural genius
rather than to these bursts of study.  A certain
amount of book-work he had been obliged to do,
and he did it.  Practical work he had revelled in,
for action suited his mercurial, restless disposition,
and his practical work had saved him.  He was by
head and shoulders the finest operator Matt's had
turned out for many a year, and the examining board
knew it.

Throughout his student's career he had been by
turns the pride and despair of his grandfather.  Dr
Mortimer had sent him angry letters when he was
in town, and delivered stern reproofs when he came
down to Threeways.  Jim had promised reformation,
only to fall away from the narrow path of rectitude
at the first opportunity that presented itself.  At last
came the paragraph in the local paper anent Jim's
doings at the Exhibition, and this had used up the
last scrap of his grandfather's patience.  Everybody
read the paragraph, and everybody laughed at it.
Overcome with rage, the Doctor had sat down at
his desk and penned the letter which changed the
whole course of Jim's existence.

So the old doctor put Jim out of his life--thrust
him forth to get his bread--or starve.  But he could
not put his grandson out of his heart, and, as he sat
by his lonely fireside during the following weeks and
months, his thoughts had often wandered to the
wayward lad, and he had often wondered how Jim was
faring--had wondered even, indeed, whether he were
alive or dead.

The photograph of his surgery which Jim sent to
his grandfather served to allay the old man's
misgivings.  He had fancied at one time that Jim had
gone clean to the bad, and that Sir Savile and other
old friends who knew both grandfather and grandson
were loth to inform him of the lad's downfall.  But
it appeared from the photograph--and the particulars
on the back of it--that Jim was earning his living.
His practice did not appear to embrace an aristocratic
quarter, but that did not matter very much.  Jim
was working, and probably amassing much useful
experience.

The old doctor felt relieved.  His first impulse--to
tear up the little picture--soon departed.  He
turned Jim's card over several times, and finally,
wondering somewhat at his unusual weakness
propped it up against one of the massive bronze
candlesticks which stood upon his dining-room
mantelpiece.  It was the only card Dr Mortimer
received, and it looked curiously small and forlorn
stuck up on that spacious, dignified mantelpiece all
by itself.

There, however, the Doctor put it, and there it
stayed.  The servants examined it and read the
message it bore on its little back, and so they too
came to learn where "Mr James" was, as did Hughes
and the other attendants over at the asylum, not to
mention the gardeners, the coachman, and the stable
hands.  So the kitchen drank a bumper on Christmas
night; the butler gave the toast "Mr James--his
health!" and with right honest warmth was it drunk.
"Bless his handsome face and kind heart!" added
the cook, wiping her motherly eyes--and thus Jim,
knowing nothing of it, was remembered.

And it is just possible that the proud old man in
the dining-room drank a silent toast to the lad he
had expelled--without acknowledging to himself that
he did so.

Christmas passed away, and January was drawing
to a close, when not only the county of Eastfolk
but the whole country was distressed by news to the
effect that Lord Lingfield, the eminent statesman--one
of the few prominent politicians of the day
reputed to speak and vote according to the dictates
of conscience--had been laid low by a dangerous
and distressing internal malady.  The illness had
been threatening for some months; indeed, it had
first manifested itself on the day when Lady
Lingfield, having driven over to consult Dr Mortimer,
encountered Jim in the act of crossing the high road
in his dressing-gown.

Since that day old Dr Mortimer had paid frequent
visits to his distinguished patient, who had at first
made light of his complaint, and who did not really
realise that his life was in jeopardy until a sudden
change in the weather gave him a chill and brought
matters to a head.  A provincial specialist had been
summoned to consult with Dr Mortimer, and Jim,
glancing through his morning paper on 25th
January--the eve of Dora's wedding day--lighted on a
paragraph announcing that Sir Savile Smart was also
in attendance at the invalid's bedside.  The three
doctors had issued the following bulletin on the
previous evening:--

.. vspace:: 2

The Earl of Lingfield is in a critical condition.  Should no
improvement take place during the next twelve hours, an
operation will be rendered imperative.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

  (Signed) SAVILE SMART, F.R.C.S.
           E. A. M'IVER, M.D.
           JOHN MORTIMER, M.D.

.. vspace:: 2

Jim smiled affectionately at the sight of his
grandfather's familiar name thus figuring in the public
press.  He was turning to another item of news,
when there came a thundering rat-tat at No. 9's
front door, and next moment Mary entered with a
telegram, which she handed to Jim.  He tore open
the envelope.  The message it contained was addressed
from "Carhall," Lord Lingfield's country seat near
Threeways, and ran:--

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center smaller

Come by first train.  Most urgent.--SAVILE SMART.

.. vspace:: 2

Jim stared in amaze at the summons.  This was,
indeed, a strange turn of fortune's wheel.  He--Jim
Mortimer--was evidently required to assist in an
operation in which his grandfather would also be
participating!  He had helped Sir Savile in this very
operation a score of times, and had performed it by
himself at Matt's with the great specialist looking on.
For Jim had guessed the nature of the operation
when Sir Savile was sent for.

"And so he wants me to lend a hand.  Good man!"

In a few moments Jim had looked up a train.
There was an express leaving for Threeways in half
an hour.  Just time!  Mary flew for a cab, Jim got
into his hat and coat, and was away before the
Maybury family had fully grasped the reason of his
haste or the exalted nature of his destination.

"Half-a-sovereign if you catch the 9.30 at
Liverpool Street," said Jim to the cabman.

"Right, sir!" said the cabby, joyously.

But the roads were slippery, and travelling was
bad.  Horses steamed and plunged, drivers lashed
and swore--and Jim's cab made slow progress.

At last the cabby found an opening and dashed
forward.  But, alas! he had just got up speed, when
his horse stumbled and fell, and could not regain its
feet, despite its frantic struggles.

Jim leapt out nimbly.  "Hard luck, cabby!" he
said.  "Here's your half-sov."

"You're a gentleman, sir," returned the driver,
touching his hat as he went to undo the prostrate
nag's harness.

Jim took a fresh cab, and caught his train with a
minute to spare.  He welcomed this journey, for the
rapid motion suited him to a nicety.  This was better
than brooding in his surgery--this was action, life,
excitement.  The country was anxiously awaiting news
of the great statesman's illness--and Jim was to help in
the drama.  The operation would not be performed,
Jim knew, until he arrived at Lord Lingfield's residence
... and the train whirled on, and Jim, though sore at
heart--for was not Dora to be married on the
morrow?--derived great comfort from Sir Savile's call.

The train sped on, and Jim's thoughts raced along
with it.  His brain and the mighty engine kept stride
for stride.

"To-morrow!  To-morrow!" sang the whirling wheels.

As the meadows, streams, and woods came into
view and as quickly passed out again, so the events of
the last few months presented themselves panorama-wise
to Jim's mind.  The tea-shop--the dainty girl
with the fairest face in the world--he in raptures,
with Koko soberly listening--the vacation--the
return--the introduction--the fight at the Exhibition--his
grandfather's letter--No. 9--the surgery in
Mount Street--and ... that night in the Crescent!
Ah, that one kiss! ...

Meadows, streams, woods flashed into view and out
again as the express flew eastwards.  London was
left farther and farther behind, and Dora with it.
Jim's heart telegraphed her a farewell.  To-morrow
she was to be married--*to-morrow*!  So good-bye,
little Dora--good-bye! ...

"THREEWAYS!  THREEWAYS!"

Here he was at last!  A tall footman was on the
platform.  Evidently he had received a description of
Jim, for he advanced directly the latter stepped out
of the train, and in another half-minute Jim was
rolling along a road very dear and familiar to
his eyes.

It was four miles to Lord Lingfield's residence--and
the earl's fine bays made a mouthful of the
journey.

"Sir Savile wishes to see you at once, sir," said the
butler, as Jim entered the lofty hall of the great
house.

Jim followed the servant into the library.  Sir
Savile was leaning back in a big easy-chair, and Jim
noted with some concern that the specialist's right
arm was in a sling.  By his side stood Jim's
grandfather.  The third doctor was in the sick-room.

Sir Savile, without rising, put out his left hand.

"My dear Mortimer, this is splendid of you!  You
have not lost a moment!"

They shook hands.  Jim turned to his grandfather.
"How do you do, sir?" he said, flushing a little.

Dr Mortimer bent his head slightly, but did not
speak.

"I suppose you were surprised to receive my
message?" said Sir Savile.  "The fact is, I've had an
accident.  I was coming downstairs this morning,
when I fell and dislocated my shoulder.  That being
the case, I wired to you----"

"I shall be pleased to assist in any way I can,"
said Jim.

The specialist smiled.  "You haven't got to assist,
Mortimer--you've got to operate yourself."

"I, sir!" cried Jim.

"Yes, *you*!  You're the best man in England after
me, as I have reason to know.  So, when I found
myself out of the running, I sent for you.  I shall
direct you, and you will receive assistance from my
colleagues, but the success or failure of the operation
will rest entirely in your hands.  If you succeed,
you're a made man; if you fail----"

"I shall not fail," said Jim quietly.

"I know you won't, my boy," said Sir Savile; "for,
if I had had any doubt of you, I shouldn't have sent
for you ... and now we will go upstairs."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN THE SILENT HOUSE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN THE SILENT HOUSE.

.. vspace:: 2

At six o'clock that night Jim Mortimer caught a
train back to London.  He had operated with
complete success, and every evening paper in the
country had published the reassuring bulletin which
Sir Savile drew up after the satisfactory completion
of Jim's task.

Had the operation failed, no mention would have
been made of Jim's participation in the affair.  But
the young surgeon had come through the trying
ordeal with an unshaken nerve and triumphant skill,
and Sir Savile was more than satisfied.

It was the concluding sentence of the bulletin,
therefore, which caused universal surprise and set
the whole medical world by the ears--as well as
a multitude of laymen--until the fact of the
specialist's accident became public knowledge.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: smaller

The operation was performed by Mr James Mortimer,
M.R.C.S., late of St Matthew's Hospital.

.. vspace:: 2

Thus did Sir Savile, with a few strokes of his pen,
make Jim famous.  He need not have said anything
of the kind, for the operation was carried out under
his close personal supervision, but he was a big man,
with a big mind, and he did not hesitate for a
moment about crediting Jim with the entire success
of the perilous undertaking.  A tremor in Jim's
hand, a slip of his knife, and Lord Lingfield's name
would have been added to the roll of illustrious dead.
But Jim's hand did not tremble, nor did his knife
slip, and so the happy bulletin went forth, and the
world was glad because a good man had been saved
to it.

The proud lady who had spoken to Jim from her
carriage on that fine September day was a different
woman altogether when she thanked him for what
he had done.  The aristocratic bearing and the air
of fine breeding were there, but her words were those
of a wife sore stricken by watching and waiting.

And following the mother came the girl Jim had
also seen in the carriage on that September day--"the
pretty girl."  Jim blushed to the roots of his
fair hair when the pretty girl added her gentle thanks
to her mother's.

"Your fee, my boy," said Sir Savile, encountering
Jim a little later in the library.  The slip of paper
he pushed into Mortimer's hand was a cheque for a
hundred pounds.

"But, sir----" began Jim, who did not want a
penny, so highly had he been paid in other ways.

"Not a word.  It's my case, and I'm not down
here for love, I can tell you.  Take your cheque,
boy, and buy your girl a necklace out of it.  By the
way, how are you getting on with Maybury's nice
daughter?"

"She is to be married to-morrow," said Jim,
turning to look at a picture.

The great surgeon, however, did not miss the
change in his voice.  Jim went on looking at the
picture, and kept his back to Sir Savile, who put his
left hand--his right not being available--on his old
pupil's shoulder.

"Have I touched a tender spot, lad?  Well, cheer
up!  It's a wide world, with a heap of other pretty
girls in it!"

And then he discreetly left Jim alone, and Jim
studied the picture for some time longer, though he
could not have told you afterwards whether it was a
landscape or a portrait of a deceased noble earl
of Lingfield.

There was no fast train back to town till six, so
Jim had perforce to remain on at Carhall.  He did
not see anything more of his grandfather, who left
the house after affixing his signature to the bulletin.
He made no inquiry for Jim, and Sir Savile looked
perplexed when he saw that his old friend did not
intend to budge an inch from the relentless attitude
he had adopted towards his grandson.

"And yet," mused the specialist, "he must feel as
proud as Punch of the lad!"

.. vspace:: 2

Jim had a smoking-carriage all to himself on his
return journey.  He was glad of that, for he wanted
to think of Dora, and solitude suited his mood.
After this night he would have to put her out of his
thoughts altogether, but to-night she was still Dora
Maybury--still the queen of his heart.  To-morrow
Jim must in honour cease to be her subject; but
to-morrow had not come yet.  Soon enough the new
day, dawning, would bring desolation to his love.

Strange that the turning-point in Jim's career
should have come on Dora's wedding eve!
Seemingly it was one of those compensatory acts
wherewith Dame Fortune makes amends for the
hard blows she deals.  Jim knew that this day's
success was good enough to make a specialist of him
right away.  And what joy would have filled his
heart, this journey, had he been speeding back to
Dora's side--he could imagine, had she been his, the
pride that would have lit up her face when she heard
of his achievement!

As the train cleft the darkness, eating up a mile
of iron road with each minute that passed, Jim, just
for the sake of the melancholy pleasure he extracted
from it, let his fancy wander in the world of
make-believe.  Dora was *his*, and was awaiting him.  He
had only dreamed that she was another's.  London
to him now was no grimy, smoke-begirt city, but a
palace of delight set in a garden fragrant with "the
blended odours of a thousand flowers."

But, alas for such vain imaginings!  A rough
voice roused Jim from his half-dose, and a
rain-spotted hand awaited his ticket....  It was London,
and London in its dampest and most dismal garb.

Jim had wired from Threeways asking Koko to
meet him at his surgery at eight.  He thought
they might spend the evening together amid cheery
surroundings.

Koko had not arrived at the surgery when he
got there.  The fire was out--Mrs Brown, taking
advantage of her master's absence, was probably
carousing with other ladies of her own station.
Mount Street appeared exceptionally sordid and
forlorn.  Everything seemed to have conspired to
add to Jim's weight of sadness.

He lit the gas, and as it flared up he was slightly
startled to observe the figure of a man huddled up
on the sofa.  On the floor, by the head of the sofa,
stood an empty glass jar.

Jim walked across the room and inspected the
sleeper.  It was the old provision dealer.

"Wake up, Mr Harris!" he cried; "wake up!
What are you doing here?"

The provision dealer slowly opened his eyes.

"Ain't I--ain't I dead, then?" he demanded.

"*Dead*?  No!  You're as alive as I am!"

"I thought I'd svallowed enough of the stuff to
do the job."

"What stuff?"

"Vy, the prussic acid.  That's deadly p'ison,
ain't it?"

"Rather!"

"Well, I svallowed all there vos in the bottle
... and I ain't dead, it seems."

Jim surveyed the empty jar, and found it to be
the mislabelled vessel in which he kept his whisky
safe from Mrs Brown's thirsty raids.

"You're a foolish old man!" said Jim.  "Never
you try on any trick of that sort again--d'you
hear?"

"Vy didn't it kill me?" inquired the dealer in
an aggrieved voice.

"Because what you drank wasn't poison--luckily
for you."

"Vould it have been enough if it had been p'ison?"

"Yes, enough to kill an elephant."

Old Harris shuddered.

"Vould it have hurt?" he asked.

"It would have burnt your inside up and curled
you into a knot.  Yes, it would have hurt a bit."

Mr Harris shook his head.

"It vos Isaac drove me to it.  I felt I couldn't
stand that velp no longer--'e drove me to it."

Mr Harris looked very bleared.  He had swallowed
half a pint of neat spirit, and the room seemed to
be going round him.

"Well," said Jim, "you may thank your stars
that wasn't prussic acid.  When you feel better, get
along home and turn into bed."

"I vill, doctor, I vill," whined the old Jew; "and
I'll pull up--so 'elp me, I vill."

"That's right," said Jim; "now take another
nap--it'll do you good."

As Jim turned towards the counter, his eye lighted
on a folded piece of paper.  Picking it up, he found
it to be a note that had been left for him.

It ran:--

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: smaller

mrs murphy's respects and Will the doctor come round
to number 8 pine Court to See her baby.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: smaller

top floor.

.. vspace:: 2

Jim often received such rough missives.  This, in
fact, was rather a literary performance than otherwise
for Pine Court.

He tossed the note back on to the counter,
buttoned up his overcoat, and sallied forth promptly.
He left the light burning, and scribbled "Back soon"
on a sheet of paper for Koko's information.

His destination was only seven minutes' walk
distant.  Not a soul was to be seen as Jim made
his way down the narrow alley by which one reached
the court from the street.  If it were possible, this
place appeared even more forlorn than the outer
world.

It seemed to Jim, as he passed into No. 8, that
the building was curiously silent.  As he ascended
to the first floor not a sound fell on his ears.  The
house smelt damp, and had an unoccupied air about
it.  Could it be that this was the tenement which
had been recently condemned as unfit for habitation,
owing to its rottenness?  If so, why was Mrs
Murphy installed on the top floor?

Jim knew, however, that it was hard to make
some of these wretched beings go, even out of a
house such as this.  Mrs Murphy would probably
be evicted in due course.  Meanwhile, her baby
was ill, and Jim had got to doctor the little thing.

So dark was it that he had to light matches in
order to see his way up the creaking staircase.
And as he ascended to the second floor he was
entirely unconscious of the fact that he was being
followed.  For behind him, with cunning stealth,
crept a man with a bandaged head.

.. _`BEHIND HIM, WITH CUNNING STEALTH, CREPT A MAN WITH A BANDAGED HEAD.`:

.. figure:: images/img-212.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: BEHIND HIM, WITH CUNNING STEALTH, CREPT A MAN WITH A BANDAGED HEAD.

   BEHIND HIM, WITH CUNNING STEALTH, CREPT A MAN WITH A BANDAGED HEAD.

As Jim went higher the silence struck him yet
more forcibly, and he began to wonder whether he
could have made a mistake about the number.  Still,
there was no harm in seeing whether Mrs Murphy
*was* located on the top floor.  So he continued his
ascent, the figure behind pursuing him with noiseless
steps.

At last!  Here was the top floor, and here was a
crazy-looking door.  And still there was absolutely
no sign or sound of a living presence in the place.

He knocked at the door.

"Does Mrs Murphy live here?" he called.

"Yes; come in," replied a woman's voice.

So he turned the handle and pushed the door open.

Instantly he stopped; the room was innocent of
any furniture, but confronting him stood half a dozen
roughs, and dimly, in the background, he could
distinguish a woman's form.

*It was a trap*--and safety lay only in immediate
flight.  He turned towards the stairs, but, as he
did so, the man with the bandaged head tripped
him up, so that Jim fell backwards into the room.
One wild glance he cast upon his assailant, and
then the bandaged man, with a savage snarl, swung
his belt.  The buckle hit Jim full on the forehead;
there came a great roaring in his ears, and while
he was feebly grasping the air the buckle descended
again and finished its work.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE VULTURES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE VULTURES.

.. vspace:: 2

For a moment the Hooligan stood motionless, as
if surprised by the ease with which he had
accomplished his revenge.  For a moment only, however.
Approaching the prostrate form of the young doctor,
he gave Jim a savage kick in the side.  Jim did not
move or speak.

"We've got 'im this time, boys," exclaimed the
rough.  "He's done."

But here there was an unlooked-for interruption.
The woman whose voice had lured Jim to his
destruction ran forward and confronted the leader
of the gang.

She was a flower-seller, and had the healthy
complexion common to her open-air calling.  A
thick mane of black hair hung over her eyes,
and she was ill-kempt and shabby, but she was not
wholly without grace of form or feature.

"You said it was an old gent coming up for rent.
You lied.  It's the tall doctor."

The Hooligan glared at her.

"Well,--wot then?"

"If I'd known it was 'im, I'd 'ave warned 'im, that's
wot!  'E saved my baby's life.  You shan't touch
'im again."

The Hooligan waved her off without ceremony.

"Shut your silly mouth, will you!  It's done now.
Get back over there, or I'll treat you as I've
treated 'im."

Appalled by his tone, the woman shrank back to
the gloomy corner whence she had emerged.

The others laughed coarsely.  The room was
dimly illumined by the light that came from the
lamp-post in the court without, but this was sufficient
to show them that their victim was unconscious, if
not dead.

"See wot's on him," said one, a hunchback.

They crowded round the still figure, and
commenced a quick search of Jim's pockets.  The
bandaged man--not without some wrangling--was
allowed to retain Mortimer's watch and chain; the
hunchback greedily possessed himself of the coins
he extracted from Jim's pockets--two half-sovereigns,
some silver, and a few coppers; another of the gang
annexed Jim's cuff-links and studs.

The other four savagely demanded that the money,
at least, should be divided up amongst them, and
were assured that they would get their share.  They
received this promise with remarks that indicated
that there was little honour among these thieves,
and it looked as if a struggle for the booty were
about to ensue, when the hunchback made a
discovery which rendered the other finds insignificant
in comparison.

"'Ere's a cheque."

So saying, he struck a match with feverish haste.

"'*Undred pounds*!  My Sam!  This is a bit o'
luck.  'E didn't get this out o' Mount Street, I'll
wager."

"Let's 'ave a squint at it," said the bandaged man.
"Ay," he continued, after examining the pink and
white slip, "this is a bit of orl right.  'Undred quid!
That'll be nearly fifteen quid apiece."

"A bit o' paper like that ain't no good to us,"
growled one of the gang; "'ow can we change it?
'Ooever tries to will be nabbed."

The hunchback interposed.  "Don't you make no
mistake, Jerry.  We can change it.  Gentleman
'Arry 'll do it.  'E can get up just like a toff--he
wasn't a valit six years for nuthink.  It ain't crossed,
and so 'e can get cash over the counter.  'E's told
me that when 'e was in service 'e often changed
cheques for the nobs wot employed 'im."

Thereupon the bandaged man arranged with the
hunchback that "Gentleman 'Arry" was to be
approached on the subject that night, and promised
five pounds if he changed the cheque first thing in
the morning.

"There ain't nuthink else on 'im, is there?" inquired
the bandaged man, when this matter had been
settled.

The hunchback went all through Jim's pockets
again, but his search only yielded some keys, a
pocket-handkerchief, and a few letters.

"No, nuthink else, mates."

"Then we'll clear."

As they all rose to their feet, the flower-seller
again confronted the leader.

"'Ow about me?" she demanded.  "Didn't I get
'im in 'ere?  'E'd 'ave cottoned something was
wrong if 'e 'adn't been answered by a woman."

The Hooligans grinned at each other.  The
bandaged man had arranged this matter with the
girl; it was no business of the others.

"Oh, you shall 'ave a new 'at, Sally," the bandaged
man assured her, with a leer.

"Wot else?"

"Anyfink yer like, Sally.  But I thought you did
it out o' friendship for me, because I was so kind to
your 'usband before they nabbed 'im," added the
Hooligan, with an unpleasant grimace.

"I'll see I get my share," said the girl, showing her
white teeth.

"Wot!  Would you take the kind doctor's 'ard-earned
welf?  'Im wot was so good to yore byby!
For shame, Sally!"

'"E's done for now, and it doesn't matter to 'im.
I'll 'ave my share, or know the reason why."

"You'll split on us?"

"Yes, on the 'ole lot of yer!  I don't join in a dirty
job like this for love.  I've a baby to keep at 'ome,
and I want money, so you watch it!"

The bandaged man winked at his fellows.
"That'll be orl right," he said.  "It's on'y 'er wye.
Well, let's get out o' this, boys."

As the others moved towards the door the
bandaged man and the girl stayed by Jim's side.  As
the former gazed upon the prostrate and silent figure,
an evil smile distorted his countenance.  "We're
quits now," he muttered, shaking his fist at the white
face, "you an' me.  You 'urt me, and now I've
'urt you."

A twinge in the wound which he had come by
through Jim's agency made him wince.  He uttered
an appalling oath.

"No, we ain't quite quits!  I'll spoil your beauty
for you, to end with, my pretty doctor."

He raised his iron-shod heel above Jim's face, but
ere the foot could descend the flower-girl pushed the
Hooligan aside with such force that he reeled against
the wall.

"Leave 'im alone--ain't you satisfied?" she
exclaimed sharply.

The man recovered himself with another oath, and
smacked the girl across the face with his open hand.

"That's for you, you interferin' cat!"

With a snarl worthy of the creature she had been
likened to, the girl hurled herself at her aggressor,
and clawed his face with venomous finger-nails.  In
the struggle the Hooligan's bandage came off,
revealing an unhealed wound.  Crying out with pain, the
rough threw the girl off with all his might, and,
turning quickly, was hacking at Jim's head and body,
when the girl, regaining her balance, flung herself
across the motionless figure on the floor, and there
remained while the Hooligan kicked and struck both
at herself and Jim with ungovernable fury.  Time
and again he tried to drag her away, but she held
staunch to her post in spite of his blows and
execrations.

By this time the Hooligan had worked himself into
a state of frenzy.  Seeing that he could not get the
girl away, he drew a knife from his belt, but, even as
he poised it to strike, the door was kicked open and
a man appeared.

Then a voice rang out commandingly; George
Somers--for Koko it was--had never spoken so in
his life before.

"Drop that knife or I fire."

With the howl of a maddened animal the
Hooligan sprang to his feet and bounded forward.
The blade flashed ominously in the lamplight.
As it swept downwards towards Koko's heart,
there was a sharp report, followed by a shriek from
the Hooligan, who swayed, clutching at the air,
and then toppled forward in a heap, shot through
the brain.

Simultaneously came sounds of heavy footsteps on
the stairs.  The other members of the gang made a
dash for the doorway, but as they reached it several
stalwart forms barred their exit.  The Hooligans,
realising their position, fought like tigers to escape,
but the police, having been forewarned of trouble by
old Harris, had their truncheons ready, and used them
without stint.  Two of the Hooligans dropped to the
floor; another, a big fellow, closed with one of the
constables, and they went swinging and stumbling
into the passage without.  Taking his opportunity,
the hunchback crept out on to the dark staircase,
and was softly descending when suddenly two bony
hands seized him by the neck, and next moment he
and old Harris were rolling over and over down the
rotten stairs, the Jew dealer hanging on to the
half-strangled dwarf with a nervous grip which the
other could not overcome, beat and tear as he
would.  Halfway down the stairs the writhing pair
were met by another couple of policemen, by
whom the hunchback was quickly secured and
handcuffed.

The reinforcing police speedily settled the matter,
and all the Hooligans were soon in custody.

When at length the police were able to draw
breath more easily and look around, they found
Somers kneeling by his friend.  By Jim's side lay
the insensible form of the flower-seller who had
befriended him with such strange suddenness.

"Jim, old chap!  Jim!" cried Koko.  "Jim, speak
to me."

No sound came from Jim's lips.  He lay as he
had fallen, with his white face upturned to the
ceiling.  But that face was without a mark, so well
shielded had it been by the woman.

"Here, sir, try this," said one of the police, holding
out a pocket-flask.

Quickly Koko unscrewed the top and forced
the mouth of the flask between his friend's lips.
The raw spirit trickled down Jim's throat, and,
to Koko's unspeakable relief, Mortimer opened
his eyes.

"Is that--you--old man?"

"Yes, Jim!  Here, swallow some more.  Oh, Jim,"
he added, in a trembling voice, "I'm so glad!  I
thought--you were dead!"

Jim gave a little sigh.  "I think they've done for
me.  I can't move--they've hurt my back...."

Koko shivered, for he knew what Jim meant.

"We'll take you to the hospital, old man," he said,
"and you'll soon be all right."

Jim's lips moved in reply, and Koko put down
his ear.

"Take me home," said Jim--and fainted away.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE HOME-COMING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE HOME-COMING.

.. vspace:: 2

On the day preceding that fixed for her wedding,
Dora Maybury purposely went down to breakfast
later than usual, as she wished to be alone during
the meal.  She did not want to meet the prying
eyes of her elder sister, or answer her still more
prying questions.

Miss H. R. Maybury, however, was not easily put
off.  This was the last day that the two sisters
would be spending under the same roof for some
time to come, and H. R. intended to make the
most of it.

When, therefore, Dora reached the breakfast-room,
she found her sister seated behind the coffee-urn.

"It is rather provoking of you to be so late, Dora,"
said H. R.  "We have had to keep breakfast on
the table for an hour, just on your account."

"You needn't have done that," replied Dora,
coldly; "I only want a cup of tea and some bread
and butter."

"You won't look much like a bride to-morrow if
you starve yourself to-day," observed H. R.

Dora made no rejoinder, but took her seat at the table.

"There isn't any tea--won't coffee do?" inquired H. R.

"*Any*\thing will do," said Dora, shortly.

"Dear me!" cried H. R.  "I hope you will be in
a nicer mood when you sit down to breakfast for
the first time with Harold."

"I expect he'll say pleasanter things to me than
you do," returned Dora.

H. R. was taken somewhat aback.  "Here is some
coffee," she said, more amicably; "there is a plate
of bacon and eggs for you in the fender," she added.

"I couldn't *touch* it!" cried Dora.

"I don't see why you should lose your appetite
because you're going to be married to-morrow,"
said H. R.

"Don't you?  Well, perhaps you'll understand
my feelings better when you find *yourself* on the
eve of *your* wedding day!" snapped Dora.

H. R., having no reply ready, pretended to read
the morning paper.

At length something occurred to her

"Oh, by the way, dear," she said, when Dora had
sipped her coffee and nibbled a few mouthfuls of
bread and butter, "some more presents have come
for you."

"Oh!" said Dora, indifferently

"They are on the hall table--shall I get them for
you?"

"If you like.  I am in no hurry."

But H. R. had recognised Jim's writing on one
parcel, and wanted to watch her sister's face when
Dora opened the packet.  Jim, it should be added
had placed the presents from Koko and himself on
the hall table very late on the previous night.

H. R. left the breakfast-room, and presently
returned bearing three parcels in her arms.

"I think there must be one from Frank, too; he
was wrapping up something very mysteriously before
he went to school this morning."

Dora turned over the three parcels which H. R. set
down on the table before her.  After scrutinising
the writing on each, she opened that addressed to
her in Frank's irregular round-hand.  Frank's present
proved to be a volume of Tennyson's works in a
handsome morocco leather cover.

"Dear Frank! what a nice present!" cried Dora.
"He must have saved up his pocket-money for
months!"

"He gets a good many tips," said H. R., drily.

"Pretty girls' brothers generally do," observed a
harsh voice at the door.

Following the remark came Miss Bird herself.
The maiden lady duly admired the Tennyson.

"The other two presents," said H. R., "are from
Mr Somers and Dr Mortimer, and Dora *won't* open
them because she knows I'm burning to see them."

"And make nasty remarks about them when
you've seen them?" suggested Miss Bird.

Before H. R. could think of a suitable retort,
Dora had drawn Koko's present from its enclosing
wrappers.

"A *work-box*--full of things!" she said, laughing;
"everything I can possibly want, even down to
matches!"

The three ladies all agreed that it was a very
nice work-box.

"And now for the third parcel," said H. R.,
meaningly.

"It is a fan," said Dora, quietly opening Jim's
parcel--"an ivory one."

She passed it on to Miss Bird.

"A beautiful present, my dear," said that lady.
"I admire Dr Mortimer's taste."

"And look!" cried H. R., who next inspected the
fan; "it has a sprig of rosemary upon it.  How
very sentimental!  That means remembrance, doesn't
it?  Dora, I do believe Dr Mortimer likes you more
than he cares to admit."

"Please don't talk such nonsense, H. R.," said
Dora, holding out her hand for the fan.

"Come, now," said H. R., spreading out the fan
and peeping over it, "tell me!  Don't you think I'm
right?"

"Right about what?" asked Dora, with trembling
lips.  "Oh, please give me my fan!"

"Give the child her fan and don't tease her,"
rasped out Miss Bird, who saw through the deliberate
malice of H. R.'s question.

"Why doesn't she answer, then?" said H. R.,
examining the sprig of rosemary with renewed
interest; "anybody would think that she liked *him*
by the way she goes on."

The blood rushed into Dora's face.

"See how she is blushing!" added H. R., unsparingly.

"I'm not blushing," cried Dora, whose cheeks
sadly belied her words.

"You are--I believe you *do* like him!"

Dora rose from her chair.  The blood had died
out of her face, and she was very white.

"And why," she demanded, her eyes flashing
ominously, "*shouldn't* I like him?  Is there any sin
in it?  When he came you all condemned him, but
he has been quite patient and nice and gentlemanly
all the time, in spite of the things that have been
said to him.  Yes, I *do* like him, and I shall always
value this present from him.  Please give it to me."

H. R. handed her the fan.  "In *that* case, Dora,
dear," she said, cuttingly, "it seems a pity that you
are marrying Mr Jefferson to-morrow."

Dora closed the fan and held it tightly to her
bosom.  Her sister's final remark had brought the
blood surging into her face again.  "Oh," she cried,
"how I *hate* you, H. R.--yes, *hate* you!"

And with that she gave a piteous little cry and
ran out of the room.

For a few moments there was silence, and then
Miss Bird turned her stern, lined face towards the
elder sister.  "Miss Maybury," she said, "I am
ashamed of you."

"Your opinion of me," said H. R., with a forced
lightness of tone, "does not concern me at all."

"To think," Miss Bird went on, "that you should
taunt that poor child with a fact that has been
patent to every woman in this house for *weeks* past!
You have seen it--you know it.  I repeat, I am
heartily ashamed of you."

"Please spare me your lectures, Miss Bird."

"I will spare you nothing.  I tell you to your
face that you are a cruel, jealous woman.  Dora is
much younger than you, but is being married before
you, and that is rankling in your mind.  And so
you bully her and tax her with liking Dr Mortimer
when you *know* she likes him--ay, likes him far
better than she likes the man she is marrying."

"But," interrupted H. R.; "Mr Jefferson happens
to be very well off, and so our dear little innocent
Dora does not see her way to give him up."

Miss Bird rose from her seat and walked up to
where H. R. was sitting.

"Do you really *know* why Dora is marrying this
young stockbroker?" she said.

"Because she is tired of working in the post-office,
and wants to have a good time, I suppose," replied H. R.

"Oh! you suppose that!  Well, I will tell you
why.  She is marrying him because she wishes to
make your father's position secure in the Jeffersons'
office, and, if possible, to improve it.  She is deliberately
marrying young Mr Jefferson with that object
in view."

"Then she is very silly," said H. R., scornfully.

"*Silly*!  Yes, she *is* silly!  But how old is
she?--*nineteen*!  And at nineteen aren't many girls *very*
silly--aren't their heads full of romantic ideas of
self-sacrifice, and other nonsense!  Yes, she *is* silly!
If she were your age--twenty-eight--she would be
marrying Mr Jefferson for her own sake, but she is
only nineteen, and so she is marrying him for her
father's sake.  Now you understand!"

"I simply don't believe you," said H. R.

"It matters little whether you believe me or not.
I have told you the truth.  I am a very much older
woman than you, and it has been my recreation all
my life--for want of a better--to watch the people
round me and dissect their motives.  Old maids are
good judges of character.  You yourself will find
you are a better judge of character in a few years'
time than you are now."

Then, with this final lash from her tongue, Miss
Bird stalked out of the room, while Miss H. R. Maybury,
feeling considerably crestfallen, made her
way downstairs to commence her household duties.

Somehow or other Dora got through this miserable
day.  At lunch and tea and dinner she hardly spoke
a word, but she brightened up when her father got
home from the office, where he had been working
later than usual in order to be free the next day.
He had brought an evening paper with him, and read
out the latest bulletin concerning the Earl of
Lingfield's health.

"So," added the ex-merchant, "our friend Dr
Mortimer was not sent for merely to assist.
According to this bulletin he actually performed the
operation--a very perilous one, I am told."

"It will make him," said Miss Bird, laying down
her knitting needles.

"Yes," agreed Mr Maybury, "a man possessed of
his nerve and skill will be in great demand.  I am
sorry in one way, because it will mean that he will
leave us."

"I hope this success won't turn his head and drive
him back to his vicious courses," said Mrs Maybury,
somewhat severely.

Mr Cleave was scanning the new number of his
favourite weekly.

"I should not be surprised," he conjectured, in his
quavering tenor, "if alcohol proved Mortimer's
stumbling-block in life.  There is a sad case in the
*Abstainer's* list this week of a young naval doctor
who has lately lost his post on account of his
habitual drunkenness."

Miss Bird cast a lowering eye on her fellow-boarder,
but before she could make any remark the
door was opened with unexpected suddenness, and
Mary came in.

"Oh, if you please, mum," she said, addressing Mrs
Maybury, "there's some policemen at the door, and
Mr Somers, and they've brought Dr Mortimer----"

But here the little maid broke down and burst into
tears.  Fortunately Koko appeared at this juncture
to complete the announcement.

"Jim has been hurt by Hooligans," he said, quietly.
"At first I wanted to take him to a hospital, but he
told me he would like to be brought here."

"Is he badly hurt?" asked Mr Maybury.

"Yes," said Koko, "very seriously hurt.  The
police fetched a doctor----"

He paused, for he noticed that Dora had risen to
her feet, and, white as death, was awaiting the
doctor's verdict.

"The doctor pronounced him to be suffering from
concussion of the brain and a fracture of the spine."

Mr Maybury walked out of the room, closing the
door after him.  The police ambulance containing
Jim's unconscious form had been set down in the
hall.  By the ambulance stood Dr Taplow's
representative--the bearded man.

"Please follow me," said Mr Maybury, and those
in the drawing-room could hear ominously heavy
footsteps on the stairs as the policemen bore their
burden up to Jim's little room on the second landing.
Koko slipped out of the drawing-room after giving
Mrs Maybury and the others further details concerning
the affair.  Dora made as if to follow him.

"You had better stay in here, dear," said Mrs
Maybury; "anybody else will only be in the way, at
present."

"I am only going into the dining-room," said Dora.

How long she waited in the dining-room, Dora
never knew.  It seemed like a lifetime.  She heard
the police go out and shut the front door after them,
and later she heard the front door opened and closed
again, and yet again.  At length, after what seemed
an interminable period, Mr Maybury came into the
dining-room.  His face was very grave.

"Father--tell me the truth!"

Dora was looking at him with beseeching eyes
that would brook no subterfuge.

"The doctor says," replied Mr Maybury, "that he
will not live more than twenty-four hours."

Dora hid her face on his shoulder.

"Oh, father, father," she sobbed, "if he dies my
heart will break!"

Mr. Maybury gently disengaged himself from her
embrace, and looked steadily into her face.

"Dora, tell me! do you love him?"

She buried her face again in the kind shoulder.

"Yes," she said, "with all my heart."

For a long, tense minute no word was spoken.
Then Mr Maybury broke the silence.

"If that is so," he said, "you must not marry Mr
Jefferson, and I must go and tell him so."

Dora raised her head.  Her eyes shone like stars
because of the great love she bore for Jim Mortimer.

"Go, then," she said, "and I promise you I will be
brave--now, and until the end."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A DELICATE MISSION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A DELICATE MISSION.

.. vspace:: 2

Mr Harold Jefferson lived in the Albany,
where a long succession of well-to-do bachelors, good
and bad, have occupied chambers since the days of
the later Georges.  The bachelor nests in the
Temple--so beloved of young Bar students fresh
from the 'Varsity--wax insignificant in comparison
with the lofty, depressing spaciousness which
characterises Albany chambers.  The rents, too,
differ widely, for whereas a man may cut quite a
tenemental dash in the Temple for fifty or sixty
pounds a year, in the Albany one's rental may run
into anything between a hundred and forty and
four hundred per annum.

A quaint nook is this Albany.  As one paces the
stone-flagged footway in the contemplative stillness
which broods over the place, it is an easy feat of
the imagination to put the clock back a hundred
years, to people the lettered houses with bucks and
bloods in Regency attire, and, with the fall of night,
to set the gaunt old quarter ablaze with candles, and
listen to the flick and rattle of cards and dice, the
popping of corks, and the sound of those old-fashioned
oaths which it was thought fit that gentlemen
should use freely in the days when Byron and
Macaulay lived in this aristocratic bachelor precinct.

But new times bring new men, and Harold
Jefferson was of the newest.  He lived in the Albany
for the same reason that he drove a motor-car,
ploughed the Thames in a steam launch, and
frequented fashionable restaurants at fashionable
hours--because it was expensive.

On this particular night--the eve of his wedding
day--Jefferson was superintending the packing of
his various possessions.  This was his last night in
the Albany, so much had to be done.  Albert, his
valet, was moving here and there with dapper,
noiseless steps, folding, arranging, pressing down,
strapping, and locking.  Albert was, on the whole,
a good valet.  He was punctual, obsequious,
diplomatic, and only stole odd sixpences and
shillings--for his was a mean little nature, content
with little thefts.

Albert put up with abuse that no honest man
would have listened to in silence.  Therefore he
suited Jefferson.  True, he had no respect whatever
for his master, but Jefferson paid him more liberally
than, say, a military gentleman would have done, so
he stayed on with Jefferson, wore his left-off suits,
annexed his small change, and was quite contented
with himself in his negative, unambitious way.

Harold, this evening, was in a high good-humour.
Everything had fallen out as he had desired that
it should do.  He was marrying a lovely girl, and
would be envied for his prize far and wide.  He
would dress her in the prettiest attire obtainable for
money, deck her out in costly jewels, and constantly
bask in the reflected glory of her beauty.  When
they came back, he promised himself he would take
precious good care she didn't pay many calls at
No. 9, or have her starveling relations to see her
more than twice a year.

At ten o'clock Albert, having completed his tasks,
left the Albany.  At eleven Jefferson was due at a
farewell supper party which was to be given in his
honour that night by some of his bachelor friends
at the famous Whittingham restaurant, where they
charge you eighteen-pence simply for hanging your
hat up.  The price of food and wine, reckoned on a
similar scale, may be imagined.  But then, Mr Jefferson
and his friends set little store by a meal that did
not cost them about six times more than it was worth.

Harold had adjusted his tie and put on his overcoat,
preparatory to sallying forth, when there came
a knock at his door.  Albert having departed, he
was obliged to answer the summons himself.

"Mr Maybury!"

Harold's tone smacked more of surprise than
cordiality.

"Yes, I am sorry to disturb you, Mr Jefferson, but
my errand is an important one.  May I come in?"

"Of course, of course!  I am afraid I cannot ask
you to stay very long, as I have to be at the
Whittingham at eleven.  Some of my friends are
giving me a send-off.  Will you have a glass of
champagne?"

"No, thank you."

"A cigar, then?"

"Again, no, thank you.  Such things would not
harmonise with my errand, for I have come, Mr
Jefferson, to break some very unpleasant news to you."

"I hope nothing is wrong with Dora?"

"My visit concerns Dora.  To come to the point
at once, I am afraid that this marriage arranged for
to-morrow cannot take place."

Jefferson stared at him aghast.

"In the name of goodness--*why* not?"

Jefferson had seated himself on the table, one
slippered foot just touching the floor.  Mr Maybury
walked up to him.

"I am exceedingly sorry to have to bring you this
news.  Believe me, I feel for your position.  The
truth of the matter is, Dora loves another man, and
therefore it would be most wrong on my part to
allow your marriage with her to take place."

Jefferson stared at his visitor in amazement

"Are you quite sober, sir?" he demanded.

"Yes, I am absolutely sober."

"Then allow me to tell you that you are talking so
much tomfoolery!  Of course the marriage must take
place!  How on earth can you have allowed yourself
to come here with such a suggestion?  I suppose
Dora is in a state of nervousness that borders on
hysteria and so has got some foolish fancy into
her head that she doesn't like me enough.  For
Heaven's sake, man, go home and reason with her,
and don't delay me any longer with such a
wild-goose tale."

The ex-merchant regarded Jefferson with a cool
and resolute gaze.

"This is not a wild-goose tale.  Dora is not
hysterical.  Nor is this a foolish fancy of hers.  She
prefers young Mortimer to you, and it would be an
unpardonable crime on my part to allow her to
marry you."

"Mortimer!--*that* bounder!"

"She loves Mortimer--and he is not, I may add,
a bounder.  He is as good a gentleman as I have
ever met."

The situation was getting serious.  Jefferson took
off his overcoat and lit a cigarette.  Then--by way
of steadying his own nerves--he mixed himself a
whisky and soda.  Finally he came to a halt opposite
his visitor, and as he did so his lips set in an ugly
and determined line.

"Now, look here, Maybury," he said, blowing a
column of smoke ceilingwards, "let us talk sense.
Dora likes this Mortimer--I have known that
for a long time.  To-night his name is in every
mouth--yes, I have read in the evening papers of
what he has done.  And so it suddenly occurs to
her that she would prefer to be the wife of a
brilliant young surgeon rather than of a--well, of
a not very brilliant young stockbroker."

Mr Maybury held up his hand, but Jefferson
would not be silenced.

"She comes to you in tears, declaring she cannot
marry me.  You, not knowing women as I do, are
convinced by her tears, and come straight off to
me to say the marriage can't take place.  You are,
if you will excuse me for saying so, a fool.  I will
marry Dora to-morrow, and afterwards I will prove
to you that I am as good a man as any common
cad of a surgeon you may please to take into your
house as a lodger!"

Jefferson's eyes were blazing with fury.  The
whisky had done its work.

"I have already told you," returned Mr Maybury,
in even, quiet tones, "that I feel very much for
you.  The abandonment of this match will put you
in a very awkward position, but I must repeat that
the marriage cannot and *shall not* take place."

"And *I* say," shouted Jefferson, "that I will not
be bested by Mortimer.  He shall not marry Dora.
I look to her to keep her promise.  Mortimer shall
never have her!"

"No, he never will," said Mr Maybury.

"What! You said just now that she prefers him
to me!"

"She will never marry him," Mr Maybury
resumed, "because in all probability he will be
dead within four-and-twenty hours!"

"*Dead!*"  Jefferson's face lit up with renewed
hope.

"Yes, he has been severely mauled by a gang
of Hooligans.  The medical man who has seen
him declares that his case is hopeless."

Jefferson did not speak for a few moments.  Then
he burst into a laugh.

"I see--I see it all! Mortimer is brought in
unconscious, and Dora promptly faints.  She is
inclined to be sentimental, as I know.  And so
you come here and tell me I mustn't marry her.
Did ever man set out on such a preposterous
errand?  My good Maybury, I shall be at the
church to-morrow, and if you and your daughter
are not there you will never set foot in my office
again."

"We shall certainly not be there," replied Mr
Maybury.

"We shall see.  You've got a night to sleep on
it.  My father is ill, and is away on the Continent.
I am head of the firm during his absence.  Fail to
keep your contract to-morrow afternoon, and you
need never show your face in my office again.  Were
my father in London he would support me, for he
will not see me insulted in this manner.  I will
telegraph to him, if you like."

"You need not do that," said Mr Maybury, moving
towards the door; "I accept my dismissal at your
hands."

Jefferson laughed again.  "I really think you
cannot be quite sober.  Just reflect on what you are
doing.  Can you afford to throw up your job with
us?"

Mr Maybury turned fiercely upon the young man.
"*Afford*!  Listen to me, Mr Jefferson.  My child's
happiness is to me a matter of higher importance
than my post in your firm.  I am a poor man--Heaven
knows!--and want every penny I earn as
your book-keeper, but that fact will not deter me
from doing what I conceive to be my duty.  I say
my child shall *not* marry you."

And without another word Dora's father turned on
his heel and went his way.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE DOCTOR VISITS MOUNT STREET`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE DOCTOR VISITS MOUNT STREET.

.. vspace:: 2

When Koko left No. 9, after seeing Jim put to bed,
he went straight to Taplow's surgery, and was lucky
enough to find that the bearded man was still there.

"Doctor, I want you to spend the night with
Mortimer," said Koko.

"Impossible," said the bearded man.  "I have an
urgent case which will keep me up till four."

"What's to be done, then?"

"Get a trained nurse--I'll give you the address of
a place in the West End where about two hundred
of them live when they have no case on.  Telephone
the manageress, and say you want a nurse sent to
No. 9 Derby Crescent to-night.  I'll look in at
breakfast-time."

He gave Koko the address of the nurses' home.

"Right!" said Koko.  "Now, doctor, tell me
candidly--has Mortimer got a chance?"

"Not a ghost of one," said the bearded man; "even
if he pulled through he would be paralysed for the
rest of his life, but he won't pull through.  The
mischief is in the spine--where he was kicked."

"I shot the fellow," said Koko, between his teeth.

"Did you? Well, I don't suppose he will be
much loss.  If the police were allowed to carry
revolvers we shouldn't hear much more of this
Hooliganism."

Koko paced restlessly up and down the surgery,
and then turned abruptly to the bearded man.

"Look here, doctor," he exclaimed, "I don't want
to hurt your feelings, but is it possible that you're
mistaken about my friend Mortimer?"

"Time will show," said the bearded man, coldly.
"I give him twenty-four hours.  Now, if you're
ready, I'll turn the gas out.  I must be off."

With a sorrowful heart Koko hailed a cab and
drove to the nurses' home.  He had experienced
too many of the telephone's delays.  At the home
he promptly engaged a nurse, waited while she
packed her box, and then conveyed her to No. 9,
where he confided her to the care of Mrs Maybury.

After this Koko made his way to a telegraph
office in the Strand, and inquired whether he could
wire to Threeways.  He was told that he was too
late.  He therefore wrote out a telegram, briefly
informing old Dr Mortimer of what had happened,
and left it with the clerk at the counter to be
dispatched directly the office opened on the following
morning.

Then Koko, worn out, sought his bed.  At ten
the next morning he had to appear at the Blackfriars
police court to answer the charge of "causing
the death" of the bandaged Hooligan, and also to
give evidence against the six roughs in custody.

About eleven the next morning Dr Mortimer
arrived at No. 9, and was ushered up to Jim's
bedroom.  A brief examination told him that his
grandson was very far gone indeed, and so without delay
he drove to Harley Street and alighted at the door
of Trefusis, the first authority on spine trouble.
Dr Trefusis promised to proceed to Derby Crescent
immediately.  A few doors lower down lived Sir
Savile Smart.  Dr Mortimer was so fortunate as
to find him in.

"Smart, I want you to come and look at my boy."

"Jim!  What's wrong?"

"The Hooligans have been at him.  I want you
to meet Trefusis and give an opinion.  Brain and
spine injuries.  You'll come?"

"My shoulder hurts; but I'll come with pleasure."

.. vspace:: 2

By one o'clock Jim had been examined by the
two great surgeons.  During the process they both
looked grave, but at the end of it Sir Savile drew
a deep breath of relief.

"He's a tough young dog.  We shall pull him
through, Trefusis?"

The spine man looked doubtful

"We may.  He'll be unconscious for a week.
When he comes round we shall be able to tell
better."

Then the specialist turned to Dr Mortimer.

"I will do my best for your boy, sir.  He may
live.  I cannot say with certainty.  A great deal
depends on the nursing.  I'll come to-morrow.
Good-day.

Soon after the two surgeons had driven off, Koko
arrived at No. 9.  He had satisfied the magistrate
that he had shot the Hooligan because his own life
was threatened, and had subsequently given some
solid evidence against the six prisoners, all of whom
were committed for trial.  Koko, however, had still
to attend the inquest on the dead Hooligan, to be
held two days later, and exonerate himself from all
blame.

Mr Maybury introduced Koko to Dr Mortimer.

"This is your grandson's great friend--Mr Somers."

They shook hands.

"I thought your name was Coke," said the old
Doctor.

"Jim calls me Koko because I am rather bald,"
explained Somers, meekly.

"And you saved Jim's life last night?"

"I shot----"

"Yes, I read about that in the paper.  Will you
shake hands with me again? ... and now please
take me round to my boy's surgery.  I've only seen
a photograph of it up to the present."

Side by side the wealthy Eastfolk doctor and the
little sporting reporter walked out of Derby Crescent
into the bustling Blackfriars Road, and presently
wheeled out of that thoroughfare into Mount Street.

"What a detestable district!" exclaimed Dr
Mortimer as they were passing the Nathans' fried
fish shop, from which proceeded a by no means
delectable odour of hissing horse fat.

"It's Jim's country," said Koko.

"Is he popular round here?"

"They love him," said Koko.

The old Doctor's face just then was a study.  He
may have been thinking of Threeways, where he had
resided for so many years without endearing himself
to a single soul.

"What sort of a living has my grandson made
here?" he asked presently.

"Oh, he has scraped along."

Dr Mortimer cleared his throat.

"When he was at Matthew's he used to run up
very extravagant tailors' bills--indeed, he ran up
extravagant bills of all kinds."

"I know he did," said Koko.

"I expect," continued Dr Mortimer, "he has rather
missed that sort of thing over here."

"He hasn't had any new things since he's been
here," said Koko.

The Doctor cleared his throat again.  "I
presume--er--I presume he had sufficient clothes?"

"Oh yes--but last winter's things had to do, you
know."

The Doctor was silent for some moments.  The
Jim who could make old things do was not the Jim
he had known.  Jim, up to last September, had
always been fastidious about the cut of his coats, and
most partial to fancy waistcoats.  Not that the
Doctor had really minded paying for them--in fact,
he had liked to see Jim well-turned-out.  What he
had objected to was Jim's utter disregard of even
moderation in expenditure.  And to think that this
same Jim had been making last winter's things "do"!

The Doctor reflected a good deal on Koko's
replies.  It occurred to him that if he had tried
to understand Jim better in the past, this split would
never have occurred.  He had thundered rebukes at
Jim much as an army sergeant would upbraid a
refractory private, and Jim, in return, had simply
been cheeky.  Now, supposing he had reasoned with
the lad in a kindly, gentle manner, would that not
have proved more effectual than inditing fierce
epistles to his grandson, when the latter was in
town, or shouting a lecture to him across the
telephone, as on that September morning of vivid
remembrance?

Jim had never known a mother's care.  He had
been brought up by his grandfather, who had taken
a pride in him such as a man takes in a handsome
horse or dog.  And so Jim ran wild, and, in the end,
was expelled from Threeways.

Such were the thoughts that coursed through the
old Doctor's mind as he paced down Mount Street
by the side of George Somers.

"Here we are," said Koko at length.

So this was Jim's surgery!  The old Doctor halted
and stared at the shabby-looking corner building.
This was where Jim had been getting his living
since he had been barred from the old roof-tree in
Eastfolk!

.. _`SO THIS WAS JIM'S SURGERY`:

.. figure:: images/img-244.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: SO THIS WAS JIM'S SURGERY

   SO THIS WAS JIM'S SURGERY

"Did he rent the entire building?" inquired Dr
Mortimer.

"Yes.  It was a pawnbroker's place before Jim
took it."

"Great heavens!  And why did he allow these
abominable placards to be pasted on his walls?"

"The old chap who let him the place wanted some
money, so Jim made him a present of the outside of
the house for advertising purposes," explained Koko.

The Doctor looked amazed.

"Dear! dear!  What a quixotic notion!"

"Jim was always like that," said Koko.

The old Doctor bit his lip and again frowned upon
the posters.  Filling the bill this week at the local
theatre was a play in which a steam-roller was the
principal attraction.  A poster, cunningly attached
to Jim's wall, just where his red lamp would shine
upon it after dusk, depicted the steam-roller descending
a narrow hill at top speed, while directly in its
track lay a young woman in evening dress, and
apparently unconscious.  The poster had attracted
half the adult population of Mount Street to the
theatre.

"Now I come to think of it," said the Doctor, "I
remember something of this kind was visible in the
photograph of the place which James sent me at
Christmas.  It represented a man throwing another
man--or a woman, possibly a woman--out of a
balloon.  I suppose these dreadful pictures are
changed every week?"

"Yes, something fresh every Monday," said Koko.

"Dear, dear me!  To think of it!"

"It didn't matter to Jim," put in Koko; "he was
rather amused by the posters."

"And who was the man who prevailed upon James
to part with his walls in this philanthropic manner?"
inquired the Doctor.

"A provision dealer called Harris."

At that moment Koko felt a touch on his arm,
and wheeled round to find old Harris himself at
his elbow.

"Mr Somers, sir, seeing you standin' 'ere, I've
come to ask after the doctor.  All Mount Street
wants to know 'ow 'e is.  Is he like to die?"

"There is hope, but not much.  You know yourself
how badly he was knocked about."

"Yes, I know that.  Yes, and I pretty near
screwed that 'unchback's 'ead orf, so 'elp me!"
returned the provision dealer, with a savage chuckle.

"Are you the man mentioned in the newspapers
as having fetched the police?" Dr Mortimer
demanded of Mr Harris.

"Yes, I'm the man," was the answer--"I fetched
'em.  You see, last night I goes into Dr Mortimer's
surgery and svallows vot I took for prussic acid.
Yes, 'arf a pint.  And vile I vos vaitin' for the end,
I fell asleep, and ven I vakes the doctor vos standin'
by me.  Vell, 'e tells me it vosn't p'ison, and
then 'e goes orf to Pine Court.  Vell, just after, in
comes Mr Somers, and says 'e: 'Vare is the doctor?'
an' I says: ''E's gone to vare it mentions in that
bit of paper.'  'Pine Court,' says Mr Somers.  'Mrs
Murphy's.'  'Mrs Murphy don't live in Pine Court,'
says I.  'I knows all the people in these courts.'  Mr
Somers 'e looks startled, and reads the note
again.  'This looks fishy, 'Arris,' he says; 'this
writin's in a disguised 'and.'  I gets up and looks
at the note, and I sees at once it vos my son Isaac's
'andwritin'----"

"Your son's!" exclaimed Dr Mortimer.  "Do
the police know that?"

"They don't," replied Mr Harris; "and for vy?
Vy, for becos I says to Mr Somers: 'This is a
trap,' I says, 'and ve'll be after the doctor and save
'im.  But I'll 'elp you on one condition only.'  'Vot's
that?' says Mr Somers, sharp like.  'That
you don't split on Isaac!  You agree to that, an'
I'll lend you this revolver!'  I vos goin' to shoot
myself at first, you see, sir, an' then I thought p'ison
vould be cleaner.  'Agreed,' says Mr Somers, and
off ve goes, I to fetch the police and Mr Somers
straight for Pine Court, vith the loaded revolver in
'is pocket."

"And this scoundrel of a son of yours--where is
he?" demanded the Doctor.

The old man laughed softly to himself.

"My son Isaac?  '*E's bolted*!  'E vent at once--vithout
a vord.  I says: 'Isaac,' I says, 'you wrote
that note.  You're in my power.  You'll 'ang if I
put up my little finger!'  And Isaac, 'e just vent
right out of the door vithout even puttin' on 'is 'at!
'E von't trouble me no more, but 'e'll always get a
livin'.  'E's clever as paint, is Isaac!  Yes, 'e vent
out like that--never saw a man go out of a 'ouse
so quick in my life.  So I've altered the name
over my shop back to '*Arris & Son*--there's the
painter just finishin'--and now I'm my own master
agen."

And the old dealer snapped his lean fingers for
sheer joy.

"Why 'Harris & Son,' if your son has run away
for good?" asked Dr Mortimer.

"Becos 'Arris by itself vould cause remark.  If
anyone says: 'Vare's your son, Mr 'Arris?' I shall
say, '*E's gone avay for 'is 'ealth,*' and that'll 'ave to
satisfy 'em."

And with a leer of the utmost self-complacency
Mr Harris saluted his two listeners, and went back
to watch the painter conclude the alteration in the
title over the provision shop.

.. vspace:: 2

Mrs Brown, Jim's caretaker, was in, and admitted
Koko and his companion.  The old doctor gazed
silently round the surgery.  There was Jim's working
coat, there was his pipe-rack, there was the quaint
Chinaman whose sudden fall forwards--ingeniously
contrived by the Long 'Un--used to announce the
opening of the street door.

"I should never have thought," murmured the
Doctor, "that Jim would have settled down in a
place like this."

"He did settle down, though," said Koko, "and
he was working it up into a good thing when this
horrible plot was laid for him."

"We must keep it going, then," said the Doctor.
"Do you suppose any of his friends at the hospital
would be willing to act in his place?"

"Sure of it," said Koko.  "I think you had better
ask Evans--a red-headed man--and Deadwood.
They are both friends of Jim's."

"I'll go and see them at once," said the Doctor,
"and then I must get back to Threeways.  I have
some patients I cannot leave for long."

"What about the hoarding?" asked Koko.

"Well," said the Doctor, "considering the service
Mr Harris rendered last night, I think we ought to
let him continue to make money out of Jim's walls."

And so, thereafter, each Monday saw a fresh
pictorial embellishment of the surgery's exterior;
every Monday the youth of Mount Street was
thrilled to the marrow by new scenes of derringdo
of lovely ladies in peril and gallant gentlemen
dashing to their assistance, and of virtue triumphing
over vice, as always virtue will do so long as there
remain in the world good women and honourable
men.

And the transpontine drama reaped many
sixpences thereby.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE WEEK PASSES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE WEEK PASSES.

.. vspace:: 2

True to the prognostication of the great Trefusis,
Jim Mortimer remained unconscious for seven
days.  During that time, liquid food--beef extract
and milk--was poured down his throat, and thus
the lamp of his life was kept alight.  At the end
of the week, Jim, emaciated and hollow-cheeked,
opened his eyes, and the first person he caught sight
of and addressed was, appropriately enough, his
friend George Somers.

"Well, young feller!" he said, with a brave
attempt to smile in his old, cheery way.

Koko took his hand and pressed it gently.

"You must get well quick now, Jim, old boy."

"It isn't in me," said Jim.

"But you must.  Oh, Jim, please buck up and get
well!"

Jim tried to shake his head, and the agonising
pain which this slight action caused him brought
the perspiration out on his face.

"I'm too far gone, dear old chap," he murmured.
"I know it."

Koko gently bathed his friend's damp face with a
sponge dipped in some cool, soothing lotion.  His
touch was as soft as a woman's.  The trained nurse,
when she went out for her daily ride on the top of a
'bus, knew that she was leaving her patient in good
hands when she left him with Koko.

"That's great," muttered Jim, and fell into a doze.

As Koko kept watch by his chum's bedside, his
kindly brown eyes became dim and misty.  Could
it be that he was to lose Jim after all? he wondered.
Oh no, that could not be!  Surely this great, honest
fellow would be spared!  He was so young--hardly
more than a boy--and had lived such a little time.

Surely, thought Koko, in his simple faith, God
would take that into consideration.  *He* would
remember how young Jim was, and remember, too,
that in spite of all the knocking about and drinking
and ragging he had done, Jim had never once been
guilty of a dishonourable action.  He had lived a
clean life, and such errors of conduct as he had been
guilty of had been due rather to his careless,
happy-go-lucky nature than to vicious inclination.  He had
knocked policemen down and painted the town blue,
but he had been a gentleman through it all.  The
policemen always seemed to feel that, apart from the
apologies and sovereigns he had subsequently applied
to their bruises as healing balm of a practical kind.

The matter with Jim had been--until a few months
since--that he had always had too liberal a supply of
pocket money to draw upon down at Threeways.
Consequently, unscrupulous fellow-students had
borrowed from him and never troubled to repay
him; consequently, it was always Jim who stood
treat; consequently, he had got into disgrace and
earned the penalty of banishment.

Such were Koko's sad reflections as he sat by
the sick-bed.  Presently he looked at his watch, and
discovered that he had just forty minutes in which
to get his bag from his rooms in the Adelphi, and
then catch a north-going express.  For that night
he was due to referee at a glove fight, at Gateshead,
between Micky Brown, the Northumberland middle-weight
champion, and Jake Morris, of Bethnal Green.
He had also to wire a half-column report of the
fight to the *Sporting Mail*.

So he had, perforce, to leave Jim, not knowing
whether he would ever see him alive again.  For
Trefusis had said that the forty-eight hours following
Mortimer's return to consciousness would decide his
fate.

Jim was still dozing.  One of his hands lay limply
on the coverlet of the bed.  Koko laid his right
hand upon it and gazed at the white face and the
boyish, close-clipped head in its snowy bandages.

"Good-bye, Jim!" he murmured, and went softly
round to the door.  He expected the nurse back
about this time.  If she had not come in he would
have to ask Miss Bird to sit with Jim, as Miss Bird
had already taken turns with Koko, Mr Maybury,
and the trained nurse in sick-room duty.

Koko was looking back for the last time at the
still form of his friend, the sadness of his heart
showing very visibly in his face, when the handle
was turned and the trained nurse came in, fresh and
rosy from her ride in the keen air.  She was a
bonny Scotswoman--quite a little thing--with blue
eyes and flaxen hair.

"Are you going so soon, Mr Somers?" she said.

"Yes, I haven't a moment to lose.  I have to
catch a train for Newcastle."

A third person, watching the two faces, would
have noticed a shadow of disappointment fall across
the little nurse's pretty face.  A third person--such
as Miss Bird or Dora--would possibly have deducted
a certain fact from this shadow.  And a third person,
watching Koko and Jim's nurse clasp hands in
bidding each other good-bye, would have smiled to
herself and looked another way, for it would seem
that the parting of these two was not without a
touch of feeling which had nothing whatever platonic
about it.

Well, Koko caught his train, and ten hours
later was the central figure of an almost
indescribable inferno.  For, as neither man had been
knocked out in the twenty rounds to which the
contest was limited, Koko, according to rule, had
awarded the fight to the London man "on
points."  Whereupon had arisen such a hurricane of yells and
oaths from the miners and shipwrights with which
the hall was crammed, that a man with less pluck
might well have been appalled.  But the little
bald-headed reporter from London stood his ground,
and looked calmly upon the infuriated faces and
forest of horny fists that surrounded the ring.

"Jake Morris wins," he said again, during a lull
in the storm, "*on points*."

And again the miners--most of whom had money
on the local pet--howled like wolves.

The police inspector standing near Koko whispered
a warning.

"Go out by the extra exit," he said; "they won't
be looking for you there."

Koko, without looking round, nodded, and, having
made certain necessary entries in his note-book,
took the inspector's hint, and made such good time
over the high level bridge into Newcastle that he
was safe in the smoking-room of his hotel while
a mass of drink-inflamed Northumbrians were still
awaiting his appearance at the stage door.

From the sick-room to this scene of unbridled
brute passions--a change indeed!  But Koko took
it coolly, as part of the day's work--sent off his
report, snapped up some supper, and went to bed,
and by eight next morning was speeding back to
London and Jim, with a sixpenny novel--upside
down on his knees.

.. vspace:: 2

During these seven days, events had been treading
quickly on each other's heels.

Harold Jefferson, knowing perfectly well that Mr
Maybury thoroughly intended that he should be
taken at his word with regard to the marriage,
had not attempted to see Dora.  As a matter of
fact, he had entertained doubts for some time past
with regard to Dora's affection for himself, and
her father's unexpected call at the Albany that
night had made it doubly plain to the young
stockbroker that Dora Maybury, even though she might
be prevailed upon eventually to marry him, was not
likely ever to prove a very affectionate wife.

So Jefferson, instead of putting on his wedding
clothes, informed his best man (the only guest
invited on his side) that the marriage had been
postponed owing to an illness in Dora's family,
and that he (Jefferson) was off to Nice.

To Nice, therefore, he went, expecting to meet
his father there and explain the situation to him.
But, unfortunately for this plan, Jefferson senior
made up his mind that very day to cut his visit
short and return to London.

Two days after the date fixed for the wedding,
therefore, Mr Jefferson arrived at his office in
Cornhill to find that his cashier had been run over
and seriously injured by an omnibus, and also that
he was a book-keeper short, "Mr Harold," before
his departure for Nice, having notified the manager
to the effect that Mr Maybury had decided to
relinquish his post in the firm.  "Mr Harold"
gave no reasons--he simply stated the fact.  The
manager therefore presumed that Mr Maybury had
obtained a better job.

So far from having secured a more lucrative post,
Mr Maybury had been a prey to considerable
anxiety.  Being his wife's property, he had no rent
to pay for No. 9 Derby Crescent, and so he was
always certain of having a roof over his head.  The
weekly sums paid by Miss Bird, Mr Cleave, and
Jim went into his wife's pocket for housekeeping
purposes.  Out of the princely salary of £150 a
year which he had received from the Jeffersons,
Mr Maybury had had to pay rates and taxes,
defray Frank's schooling expenses, and contribute
towards his family's clothing bill.  It will therefore
be readily comprehended that he himself was not able
to indulge in a very sumptuous midday meal, or
pander to his own modest wants in any but a most
economical manner.

When, therefore, the ex-merchant explained to
his wife that he was no longer employed by the
Jeffersons, and why, such a shower of vicious
invective descended upon his unfortunate head that
he felt strongly inclined to take a steerage passage
to the States and there endeavour--with his
extensive knowledge of the cotton trade--to retrieve
his fallen fortunes.  He was, in point of fact,
actually looking through the shipping advertisements
with the laudable object of finding the
cheapest line by which it was possible to cross the
Atlantic, when he received a wire from Jefferson
senior desiring him to attend at the office with
the least possible delay.  When he returned in the
evening, Mr Maybury informed his wife that Mr
Jefferson had appointed him cashier to the firm at
a salary of £300 per annum, *vice* the gentleman
who had been run over by the omnibus, whose
injuries, it appeared, had proved so serious that
Mr Jefferson had decided to pension him off.

"And what did Mr Jefferson say about Dora?"
inquired Mrs Maybury, when she at length came
to the end of her eloquent expressions of
satisfaction.

"He said," replied Dora's father, "when I had
explained the circumstances to him, that he
considered I had acted quite rightly."

"And Harold?"

"Will stay at Nice till the spring."

Thus did the wheel of Fortune, in its strange
revolutions, bring Mr Maybury once more a modest
sufficiency of Income.  He had not hesitated a
moment in accepting the vacant post and the
additional salary, for he knew that he was quite
capable of doing the work, and that he would not
be receiving a penny too much for the responsibility
and the trouble his new duties would involve.

"I think," said Mr Maybury, just before he and
his good lady fell asleep that night, "that we
might now engage a cook.  H. R. deserves a rest."

"Very well, dear," said Mrs Maybury, quite
amicably.

"And then, as to Miss Bird and Mr Cleave----"

"Oh, they had better stay on," interrupted Mrs
Maybury; "three hundred a year, though magnificent
compared to what you have been getting,
is not a very great income.  Miss Bird and Mr
Cleave will still be a great help."

"I have altered my opinion about Miss Bird,"
said Mr Maybury; "I am beginning to like her."

"And do you still consider Mr Cleave an 'old
woman'?" inquired Mrs Maybury.

"I do," said Mr Maybury--"an older woman
than ever.  If he wants to go, I shan't beg him
to stop."

Curiously enough, within a few days Mr Cleave
put Mr Maybury's declaration to the test.  For, on
the day Jim recovered consciousness, Mr Cleave
informed Mrs Maybury that he had decided to go
and live with some relatives at Norwood.  Mrs
Maybury said that she should be sorry to part with
Mr Cleave, but Mr Maybury preserved a discreet
silence on the point.

And it fell out in this wise.

Mr Cleave had always admired Dora, and had
always exerted himself to be agreeable to her.
When, therefore, Dora's engagement with Harold
Jefferson was broken off, Mr Cleave began to pay
a large amount of attention to his appearance.
He bought some new made-up ties and some new
collars of the latest shape; also, he had his hair
cut, and purchased a new pair of button-up boots.

At all meals, thenceforth, he engaged Dora in
sprightly conversation, and one day, meeting her
alone in the drawing-room, he handed her a book.

"A little present, Miss Dora," he said.

"Oh, thank you, Mr Cleave," said Dora, politely.

On examining the work, Dora found it to consist
of *The Total Abstainer* for the past six months,
bound up in a green cover.  Glancing casually
through it, she suddenly came across a passage
heavily marked with a blue pencil.  The page on
which the passage occurred was headed "Our
Pillory," and directly Dora's eye fell on the
paragraph she recognised it as an old friend.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: smaller

"A piteous example of what over-indulgence in alcohol
may bring a man to (*ran the paragraph*) was afforded by
a case which came before our notice one day last week in
the Kensington Police Court.  The degraded being who
faced the magistrate with an unabashed gaze was a young
doctor named Mortimer----"

.. vspace:: 2

Oh yes!  Dora *well* remembered a certain evening
in September when Mr Cleave read this out to the
assembled company in the drawing-room.

"Do you know, Mr Cleave," she said, sweetly,
"I am afraid this book will be *rather* thrown away
on me.  *I* don't drink----"

"There are some excellent tales illustrating the
evils----" Cleave was protesting, when Dora
interrupted him.

"Yes, but they are hardly the kind of tales girls
care to read.  It is very kind of you to give me
this volume, but I feel you could bestow it better
elsewhere."

"As you like--as you like," said Cleave, looking
much offended.

"But," said Dora, producing a tiny pair of scissors
from her chatelaine, "there is one paragraph I
should like to cut out, if you don't mind.  This
one, look...."

Mr Cleave looked--and turned pale.  He had
entirely forgotten having marked that report of
Jim's wrong-doing.

"You see," explained Dora, a bright flush
irradiating her face, which had been very wan and
pensive all this week of dire suspense, "I take a
great interest in the--the person this paragraph is
about."

Then she quickly snipped the paragraph out and
put it safely away in her purse.

"Thank you so much, Mr Cleave," she said,
handing back the volume.

And so Mr Cleave, after giving the matter due
reflection, decided that he couldn't do better than
go to live with his relatives at Norwood.  He had
always fancied that they didn't understand him at
No. 9.  He felt quite sure about it now.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT THE BEARDED MAN HAD MADE ANOTHER MISTAKE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXI.

.. class:: center medium bold white-space-pre-line

   IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT THE BEARDED
   MAN HAD MADE ANOTHER MISTAKE.

.. vspace:: 2

Mr Evans Evans, of the red hair, and Mr
Deadwood, the truculent and filibustering, having
recently (after an eight or nine years' struggle)
obtained their qualification, accepted Dr Mortimer's
invitation with alacrity.  Yes--certainly they would
look after the Long 'Un's practice.  Only too pleased.
Start at once and share proceeds?  Right O!

They were both capable men, and so they found
it quite within their power to cope with the work
in Mount Street and its environments.  True, Mr
Evans did the brunt of the work, but Mr Deadwood
had his uses.

For, taking into consideration the manner in which
the Long 'Un and his predecessor had been handled
by the Hooligans of the neighbourhood, Mr Deadwood,
after due thought, decided that the thing was
to take a strong line with such roughs as might
assume a hostile, or even an impertinent, attitude
towards himself and his colleague.  There were still
a good many Hooligans about, and the colour of
Mr Evans's hair provoked a variety of rude jests
from a group of them on the afternoon of the day
Messrs Evans and Deadwood started operations in
this district.

The first guffaw had hardly sounded out upon the
raw February air when Mr Evans smote the nearest
humorist on his nose, and Mr Deadwood knocked
the principal guffawer's head against the wall that
was supporting his idle form.  The other Hooligans
objecting to this species of rebuke, a spirited free
fight was soon in progress.  But, after Covent
Garden porters, Mr Deadwood found the weedy
louts of Mount Street comparatively mild customers
to tackle, and he laid about him with such energy
that the group of Hooligans soon decamped with
many oaths and much gnashing of such teeth as
Jim's deputy had left in their gums.

In brief, Mr Deadwood, who had been a scrapper
from his birth, and who had only been knocked out
in fair fight once in his life--his opponent on that
occasion being James Mortimer--established what is
called a "funk" in Mount Street, for, after his
primary bout with the Hooligans, the mere sight of
his great shoulders and bull-dog jaw caused such
law-breaking vagabonds as he might meet in the
course of his rounds to slink off rapidly down dark
alleys and tortuous byways in order to avoid him.

"The fact is," said Mr Deadwood one day, "Jim
was much too gentle with these chaps.  He didn't
hurt 'em enough.  By George! when I think how
he was served, I feel inclined to go for every
pub-propper-up I meet."

And indeed, Mr Deadwood's countenance wore
such a pugilistic expression whenever he walked
abroad--which was a good many times daily--that
the local Hooligans began to decamp to less perilous
quarters, and Mount Street in time came to be quite
a respectable thoroughfare for those parts.

Occasionally Messrs Evans and Deadwood, having
finished their day's work, would go to see Jim.  The
little Scottish nurse took care that they did not talk
very much, and so the partners found their visits to
No. 9 hardly what one would call lively excursions,
though it is true they took a certain pleasure in
calling there, for Mr Evans quickly came to the
conclusion that the trained nurse was "a nice little
thing," while Mr Deadwood, after talking to Dora,
would fall into a strangely sentimental and
melancholy mood.  A few pints of bitter ale,
however, served to dispel his gloom in the long
run, and then he would hie forth and search for
Hooligans, and the latter had a bad time if he
happened to find them.

One evening, when the partners called at No. 9,
they were told that they couldn't see Jim, as Dr
Trefusis and Sir Savile Smart were with him.  Mr
Evans therefore challenged Miss Bird to a game of
draughts, and Mr Deadwood favoured Dora and
Frank with a lurid account of the various battles he
had fought during his hospital career.  It was not an
improving discourse, and as a consequence of it
Frank came home the next day with a black eye,
the result of having engaged a much larger boy
than himself in fistic combat.

The outcome of the specialists' conversation with
Messrs Evans and Deadwood, after a rigorous
examination of Jim's injuries, was that Mr Deadwood
called on the bearded man when the latter was
discussing tea and crumpets on the following
afternoon.

"Oh, how do you do?" said the bearded man
rather stiffly, as he rose from the table.

He had observed the arrival of the partners in
Mount Street with some misgivings, for he recognised
them as members of the Matt's band that laid waste
his surgery.  He did not go out of his way to renew
his acquaintance with them, and trusted they would
not take the initiative in that respect.  However, in
view of the ferocious character his patients had given
Mr Deadwood, he thought it would be as well to be
polite to him.

"Don't let me disturb you," said Mr Deadwood;
"I have only dropped in to tell you, in the plainest
way the mind of man is capable of conceiving, that
you are an ass!"

"What reason have you for saying this?" demanded
the bearded man, coldly.

"In the sublimity of your ignorance," explained
Mr Deadwood, "added to your coruscatingly conceited
idea that you know anything whatever about
the human frame, you informed a sporting gentleman
of my acquaintance that Jim Mortimer would only
last twenty-four hours."

"Yes," said the bearded man, "I said that, and I
meant it.  Is he still alive?"

"Man, man!" exclaimed Mr Deadwood, "it hurts
me to think that you come from Matt's--a place
that has bred many eminent surgeons, including
myself and my friend of the carmine tresses."

"Is Mortimer still alive, then?" reiterated the
bearded man.

"He is so alive," returned Mr Deadwood, "that
Trefusis says he will be playing cricket in June!
Wherefore, what price *your* diagnosis of his hurts,
my whiskered fakir?"

"I am surprised to hear it," said he of the beard.

"Of course you are," exclaimed Mr Deadwood,
"and why?  Because you are an ass.  Sir, you ought
to take a job on an Australian liner.  You would
find little to do except consume meals and inhale
ozone.  Going out, possibly there would be a few
sick infants, and a gentleman afflicted with what is
politely called the 'drink habit'!  You would help
the latter on his way to a watery grave, and no one
would mind.  Coming home, you might pick up a
soldier from Egypt with dog-bite, bound for the
Pasteur Institute.  You would cut off his leg and
think you had cured him.  So why not get a liner
job, my hairy false prophet?"

"Please moderate your language!" exclaimed the
bearded man, shortly.

"Tut! tut!  Go to!" replied Mr Deadwood; "I am
only giving you these hints for your good.  You
ought not to doctor human beings, bar pirates or
Esquimaux.  Why not turn vet. and specialise in
elephants?  They take a lot of killing."

"I think you are very rude," protested the bearded
man.

"Pulling out horses' teeth isn't a bad-paying
business, either," continued Mr Deadwood.  "You
use forceps about as large as tongs.  They would
just suit your delicate touch."

"Everybody is liable to make mistakes," pleaded
the bearded one.

"But when a man practising medicine makes the
mistakes you do," returned Mr Deadwood, "he had
better set up at once as secret agent--on a liberal
salary--to a necropolis company."

But the bearded man was only half-listening to
his visitor.

"I can't understand it," he muttered; "he was
frightfully injured."

"But he's frightfully tough," rejoined Deadwood:
"footer, rowing, cricket--all good for the spine.
He'll get well!  Ahem!  Sorry to have to suggest
it myself, but have you got any tea to give away to
a thirsty apothecary?"

"Certainly.  Sit down and have a cup."

"I will," said Mr Deadwood.  "As I have
previously remarked, you're not a bad sort.  After
all, you can't help being an ass.  *You* condemned
Jim to death, and Trefusis has reprieved him.  Two
lumps and plenty of milk, and the toast is--JIM!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN WHICH TWO PEOPLE SET OUT UPON A JOURNEY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN WHICH TWO PEOPLE SET OUT UPON A JOURNEY.

.. vspace:: 2

The Long 'Un lay staring at the wall-paper.  How
often had he counted that design!  Above the
window it was repeated seventeen times--over and
over again he counted the pattern to make sure it
was repeated seventeen times--eight each side and
one odd one in the middle.  And again underneath
and along each wall ran the design in serried and
monotonous rows.  He knew every bend and turn
of it by heart.  It represented a herb or flower of
some kind, the like of which never was seen by
mortal eye in garden, forest, field, or dell.

Almost unceasingly Jim had gazed on this stiff
unnatural growth since he had regained consciousness.
He had nothing else to do.  He didn't want
to talk, and he wasn't encouraged to.  All he could
do was lie there and stare at the wall-paper.

And when he was not counting the wall-paper
pattern he would close his eyes and picture Dora to
himself.  He would think of her in the neat coat
and skirt she wore to the post-office and back; then
simply in the blouse and skirt she dressed in "for
the house"; then in the white frock she donned
when bound for any entertainment in Jefferson's
company.  On the whole, Jim most liked to dream
of her in the blouse and skirt.  He had seen her
thus attired most frequently; such was her costume
when he first set eyes on her in the A B C shop
that memorable August afternoon.

And so he lay with his head in white bandages
and his back in plaster-of-Paris--not able to sit
up or to turn even; so he lay and gazed upon the
pictures of Dora that floated before his mind's eye.

They had not told him that no marriage had
taken place.  The matter had been delicately
mentioned to the two great surgeons by Mr
Maybury, but they had both set their faces against
the idea of saying anything to Jim about it,
Trefusis declaring that it would excite his patient
too much.

Sir Savile concurring, Mr Maybury was obliged to
submit, although he himself could not help thinking
that the intelligence would banish that brooding
expression for ever from Jim's eyes.  For Dora's
father sitting by the bedside, could see that Jim was
suffering from something more than the physical
injuries he had sustained in the Silent House.

Mr Maybury spoke to Koko about it.

"Yes," said Koko, promptly; "I have a good mind
to tell Jim, and let the doctors go hang.  They
only take a scientific view of his case.  *Shall* I?"

"We must obey orders," said Mr Maybury.

"Well I don't believe it would do him all that
harm--and it might do him an awful lot of good."

"I think with you," said Mr Maybury, "but the
doctors probably know best."

"All the same, doctors don't know everything,"
grumbled Koko.

Jim did not make a single inquiry on the subject.
He presumed Dora was away honey-mooning under
the fair blue skies of the Mediterranean.  He had
no idea she was still at No. 9, seriously considering
the question of taking a business situation
of some sort, since she could not return to the
post-office.  Her father did not encourage the idea,
nor did he oppose it.  If Dora would be happier
going to a city office every day, well--she had better
go.  But, on the other hand, he was quite content
that she should remain at home, now that he was
so much better off.

So stood matters when old Doctor Mortimer stole
a couple of days from his wealthy and, in many
cases, hypochondriacal patients down at Threeways,
and, running up to town to see Jim, pitched his tent
in a quiet Arundel Street hotel.  In order to reach
Mount Street he had only to make his way along
the Embankment to Blackfriars Bridge, whence to
Derby Crescent was a smart fifteen minutes' walk.
For the Doctor always walked if it was fine weather.
"It keeps a man alive--walking," the old gentleman
told Koko, who lunched with him on the day of his
arrival in town.  And, to be sure, it was good to
see the Doctor's stalwart form striding briskly along
the crowded pavements, his fine, clean-cut face ruddy
and wholesome showing up refreshingly against the
pallid cheeks of London wayfarers.

"We must get Jim away to the seaside as soon as
possible," he said to Koko, as the latter with some
difficulty kept step for step with his big companion;
"what he wants is oxygen--oxygen."

During lunch Koko had given Jim's grandfather
a complete history of the Jefferson episode.  He
also mentioned that Jim was being kept in ignorance
of the closing incident.  So, after a short silence,
Dr Mortimer slackened his pace, and said: "She's
a nice girl, then, Mr Somers?"

"She's as nice a girl as you could meet, Doctor."

"Doesn't spend all her time reading silly novels,
I trust?"

"Hardly *all* her time, Doctor.  She reads a certain
number, I suppose."

"She's a good girl--I mean, a girl with religion?
I don't believe in your modern young lady who
strums waltzes on the piano instead of going to
church!"

"Nor do I," said Koko.  "Yes," he added, "she's a
good girl.  She's been looking after the poor
flower-seller who saved Jim's face from the Hooligan's
boot."

"And so,"--the Doctor slackened his pace still
more,--"and so, if we manage to pull Jim round
and make him as strong a man as he ever was,
you think this girl will marry him?"

"I'm sure of it," said Koko.

"And you're sure this is no passing fancy of
Jim's?  You think he will want to marry her?"

"I'd stake my life on it," cried Koko.

"Then," said the Doctor, "the very best medicine
the boy can have is a daily visit from Miss--er----"

"Dora," supplied Koko.

"From Miss Dora Maybury," added the Doctor,
emphatically.  "Very good.  I'll take the responsibility
of the matter on my own shoulders.  He shall
see her."

.. vspace:: 2

Jim was staring at that abominable wall-paper
pattern without coming to any decision about the
number of times it was repeated over the window.
For in every leaf he saw Dora's face--and very
soon he would see Dora herself, for he knew now
that she hadn't married Jefferson, and that she was
coming to tea with him this very day.  It was
to be, in fact, quite a tea-party--a small one, and
a very select one.  The little Scottish nurse, who
was all-powerful in the sick-room--and had made
this fact very clear to everybody by this
time--would act as hostess, and the guests would be
strictly limited to Jim's grandfather, Koko, and
Dora.  It would not do, said the nurse, firmly to
have too many people to tea, and the party must
only last half an hour at the outside.  Another day
she would invite Mr and Mrs Maybury, Miss Bird
and Frank--but they must not come to-day; it
would be too many for the little room.

So now Jim was feeling very happy.  He and his
grandfather had "made it up" completely.  In fact
Jim had been astonished by the change that had
come over the old gentleman.  True, the abrupt
manner of speech remained, but behind it was a
new gentleness, and a new understanding of Jim.

So they had shaken hands, and the Doctor was
now downstairs talking to Koko and Dora.

.. vspace:: 4

[Transcriber's notes:

.. vspace:: 1

The last page of this book was missing, however, it 
can be assumed that there was a happy ending.

.. vspace:: 1

The source book was in poor condition.  Its title page 
mentions sixteen illustrations, only seven of which
were still in the book.]

.. vspace:: 6

.. pgfooter::
