Part 8

"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."

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.

*CHAPTER XVI.*

*JIM'S PATIENTS.*

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.

*CHAPTER XVII.*

*IN THE CRESCENT.*

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.

*CHAPTER XVIII.*

*MASTER HARRIS IS SHOWN OUT.*

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!'