Part 11

"M'yes!" admits the doctor. "It's pretty bad. I'll give you a powder and some syrup."

"Powder? Syrup?" echoes the matron. "H'm! Pity you can't give 'im a corfin. That's the on'y treatment what'll give any peace to _this_ pore little swine. What mercy, _I_ say, is there in letting a thing like this live on? Look at it."

When, to your great relief, the experienced matron goes away, you will be very lucky if you do not wish her back again, for it is ten to one that she will be followed by an apprentice to the trade, a poor wild thing whose senseless, shiftless, screaming mother-agony will hurt you ever so much more than the grim philosophy of the veteran.

"It seems to grip 'im, Doctor," the apprentice will say, "and throw 'im down, pore lamb, an' wrestle with 'im, Doctor, same's there was a fish-bone in 'is little throat, and 'im so weak, 'e don't have strength enough to 'oller, and 'im so blue and mottled, Doctor, and strangled-looking in the face, and the powder, that ain't doin' 'im no good. The Irishwoman down below, she dreamt she seed 'im in a shroud, and, Doctor, I see meself as 'e gets thinner, and I believe me milk 'as got some poison in it, along of some oysters what I eat one Sunday, and so I see 'im gettin' thinner, Doctor, and there's the strangled look a-comin' _now_! Won't you give 'im somethink, Doctor? What did you say I was to take 'im to the breast for? I tell you my milk 'as got the microbes in it. Oh, Christ! what can a woman _do_? And Mine he comes 'ome late and stands and swears at me wiv no more feelin' than a 'og. Me gran'father Murphy's eyes 'e's got. There, then, sonny; there, then. What'll you do for 'im, Doctor? I seed a black cat on our winder-sill last night. My Gawd!--see 'ow it grips 'im!"

By the time you feel disposed to come back to the gas-stove again it will be seen that the apprentice mother has given place to a grandmamma, who has looked in, as a friend, to mention that much gossip is arising in consequence of the extreme youth of Dr. Brink's apothecary.

Far be it from her--Elizabeth Tebbings--to be one as would carry idle tales or utter idle plaint, but the fact remained and could be very solemnly attested by many honest witnesses from Mulberry Buildings that the medicine which she, Elizabeth Tebbings, had last Tuesday week received from the apothecary possessed a strange, unusual, and forbidding flavour--a nasty-nice sort of flavour which gave you shivers down your back.

"Far be it from me," protested Mrs. Tebbings, "to cast no slur, especially when the parints of the party has been friends and neighbours along with anybody--good neighbours, too--'is father especially being the 'andsomest man in the Customs service--but the truth is the truth even though a young man's parints _is_ beknown to you, and to tell you the truth of _this_ affair, Doctor, young Wilfered Crage 'e _is_ young--a mere boy, Doctor, if you understand my meanin'. And, unwilling as I am, 'avin' come to a motherly time of life, for to kerry tales, still I must say--speaking friendly, mind you, Doctor--that the medicine _did_ taste ugly. Me brother Joseph tells me there was stricknyne in it."

The doctor, having closely examined the water-tap in Wilfered's official laboratory, is heard to assure Mrs. Tebbings that her fears of strychnine poisoning are groundless, and that lady goes out with her confidence partially restored. "At the same time," she insists from the threshold, "the boy _is_ young. And you got to remember that some of your patients _'ave_ died sudden, Doctor. Look at that girl wiv 'earts disease what lived in our basement!"

The next woman to enter has come to "engage." "I expect about the first week in September," she says. "An' if you please I'd like to pay a couple o' shillin' orf me ticket now. An', if you please, Doctor, will you give me the ticket with the two shillin' wrote orf? On'y will you give me another ticket, too, without nothink wrote orf? I want one so's I kin show it to me 'usband, see, Doctor? 'Cause if 'e see as I bin able to pay orf any, 'e'll say as I kin pay the lot orf, and I want to git a little 'elp from 'im, Doctor, so's to 'elp me over it all."

This mild and unreproachful statement will probably provide you with a subject of thought. But your attention is diverted from that theme by the sudden appearance of one more mother--a hearty, stalwart, red-faced mother, with an ample bosom.

This mother produces from behind the door a hearty, stalwart, red-faced boy. "'Is teef is rotten, Doctor," she explains. "I brought 'im round to 'ave 'em out. There's three wants coming out. They're all the same side. See 'em?"

"I see them," replies the doctor. "But three teeth at--er--one sitting! Isn't that _rather_ a tall order? Don't you think, perhaps, now, that we'd better take out only two to-day and leave the other one for treatment later on?"

The mother grins extensively, shaking her jolly head.

"Never mind, Doctor," she says, "let's 'ave 'em all out. It's on'y eighteenpence."

*XXXIV*

*THE WOES OF WILFERED*

Wilfered, the 'Pothecary, hath a sorrow, or rather two sorrows, if not more than that.

Some of these sorrows have reference to his master's interests; and it was in the capacity of Doctor Brink's familiar friend that I was privileged to learn some details of Wilfered's private and professional afflictions.

We were in the dispensary, Wilfered having just explained that there were limits to the things which even he could stand; that the affections of a man and a 'Pothecary could be toyed with once too often, when a little maid came in. She was quite a little maid--some four to five spans high--the top of her dishevelled head being scarcely on a level with the ledge of Wilfered's peep-hole--that mysterious recess through which he views and governs the multitude within the doctor's waiting-room. The little maiden, having rapped authoritatively upon the wainscoting, held up an arm with a penny at the end of it, and a face enamelled over with soot and treacle. Said this client, speaking quickly--

"Penny powder for a baby six months owld."

Wilfered's expression of general discontent changed to one of immediate and particular disgust. "What do you say?" he demanded of the client.

"Please," murmured that lady, with the air of one triumphantly conscious of that which was expected of her.

Wilfered solemnly shook his head. "Never mind about yere manners," said Wilfered. "What d'ye want?"

"Penny powder for a baby six months owld," repeated the child.

Wilfered turned from the client to me, a look as of despair upon his face.

"This is the sorter thing you gotter contend against," he complained.

Then addressing himself once more to the child, he uttered a sort of formula which he keeps for these emergencies--

"We don't sell powders yere. If you wanter powder, go to the chimmis."

The infant looked at him hopelessly. "Mover told me to come yere," she said.

"Under the circumstances," responded Wilfered, uttering another formula, "we will let you 'ave the powder. We won't sell it. We'll _give_ it you. Nex' time, go to the chimmis."

"That's the sorter thing you gotter contend against," said Wilfered again, as the client departed.

He was about to repeat this observation for the third time, when his thoughts were distracted by the entry of another juvenile client--an older and taller girl than the last, though hardly a cleaner one.

"Penny soothin' powder for a baby eight months owld," demanded the new-comer. She was the possessor of a wide, immovable smile.

Wilfered bestowed another of his speaking glances upon your servant. And to the client he repeated his formula: "We don't sell powders yere, my gal. If you wanter powder, go to the chimmis."

The lady listened to this statement with an attentive air. Then she spoke again, saying, "Penny soothin' powder for a baby eight months owld."

"We don't sell powders, I tell you," responded Wilfered.

"No," said the girl, "but you give 'em."

Wilfered extended his head a further inch through the peep-hole. His nose and that of the client almost touched each other.

"This is a noo game, ain't it?" demanded Wilfered.

"What next? 'Cause we 'appen to give you a powder once, out of our generosity, seem to think you on'y got to come in yere to get one on the nod atenny minnit. Go to the chimmis."

"Ma towld me to come yere," protested the client.

"Then," said Wilfered, "you go 'ome an' tell yere Ma as I refuse to serve ye. Seem to take us for a 'firmary. We don't sell powders, nor we don't give 'em--except first time to a reg'lar customer what does not know our rules. And if we was to sell powders, it wouldn't be for a penny, me gel.

"These powders," continued the loyal but shameless 'Pothecary, "are made up outer the very best drugs. They cost _us_ frippence. You go 'ome an' tell yere mother _that_."

The lady went home, to be followed, in the course of nature--this being, as it were, "the children's hour"--by another lady, younger and smaller than any of her predecessors, demanding "A penny powder for----"

"'Oose baby?" demanded Wilfered.

"Baby four months old," replied the messenger.

"_'Oose_ baby?" repeated Wilfered.

"My baby," said the child.

"You bin 'ere afore about your baby?" inquired the 'Pothecary.

"No," said the messenger.

"Oh," mused Wilfered. "What name?"

"'Ilder," said the messenger.

"Mother's name, I mean," explained Wilfered.

"Mrs. Bates, Mulberry Street," said Mrs. Bates's emissary.

And Wilfered repeated his formula: "Tell yere mother as we'll _give_ 'er the powder this once, but nex' time you must send to the chimmis. We don't sell powders yere."

Mrs. Bates's daughter, having received her powder, and being as yet without a proper understanding, deposited the penny with which she had been entrusted upon the ledge of Wilfered's peep-hole, and bolted from the waiting-room.

Wilfered gazed upon this coin with an air of indecision. Finally, he picked it up (between a finger and thumb) and flung it into the till. His actions said plainer than words that he possessed a professional sentiment which was outraged at the thought of accepting this tainted money.

And then--for events move quickly in Bovingdon Street--who should come bouncing in again but the big girl whom he had previously dismissed--she of the immovable smile.

"Penny soothin' powder for a baby eight months owld," said the big girl.

Wilfered was at first unable to speak; but when he did so, it was with point and emphasis.

"I suppose," he said, with scorn, at the end of his address, "as you kin understand plain English? We _down't sell powders_. And if we did, we couldn't sell 'em for a penny. These powders cost _us_ frippence. Did ye tell yere mother that?"

"Yus," responded the girl, "but mother says she can't 'elp _your_ troubles."

Wilfered held on to the pill-tub and looked wildly about him. Then, with a deep-drawn sigh, he held out a powder and took the penny.

"What is the use o' arguin?" he demanded of your servant. "Look what you got to contend against."

*XXXV*

*STILL MORE OF PRUDENCE*

Baffin came bouncing in one morning and bounced me off the gas-stove.

His hair was ruffled and his face was flushed and his eyes were flashing sparks.

"My God!" he cried. "I--I've made a weird, a wild, a terrible discovery. Good God, who would have thought it! That child, mind you, that imbecile. 'God, sir, if this were a humane and Christian country, I should be allowed to call the damned beast out and carve patterns on him."

"You are referring to----"

"Prudence--Prudence," responded Baffin, with agitation. "She HAS TOLD ME ALL. Come in and see her."

Prudence had flung herself down upon a grimy sugar-box, and lay there, still and bruised and broken. There was an awful quiet in the room.

Baffin resumed his remarks in reference to the subject of damned beasts. I hushed him with a grave, paternal glance.

"Think of poor Prudence," I said.

Prudence rose slowly to her feet. She thrust back the hair from before her eyes.

"Oh, my Gawd! Mr. Baffin," she said, "you do gow in for the funniest talk ever! 'Ere--I say, when I was down there, do you know what I see? I see as there is a crack in that sugar-box; I do believe that's where I dropped that picture powstcard what I lorst 'ere last sittin'.

"Oo-er, it will be all right if we can find it there, wown't it, now? I 'ave missed that card, I can't tell you! 'Cos my mother give me that card, an' I love everythink what my mother gives me. You dunnow _what_ a good mother I got, Mr. Baffin. She's working 'ard all day to bring me up proper, she is, an' the place on 'er arm is _ever_ so bad still. If on'y I could learn to sit still, I could earn a lot of menny to give to my mother, couldn't I, Mr. Baffin? 'Cos you said so, didn't you, Mr. Baffin?

"See if I don't learn to sit still; people that try can always succeed, can't they? My mother often tells me that. Be a dear, an' move the box, Mr. Baffin."

We moved the box, but the card was not there; and Prudence succumbed to a fresh outbreak of tears, and had to be comforted with condensed milk, which she relished in spoonfuls direct from the tin. We rescued this stimulant from Prudence in time to avert the tragedy of an overdose; and then she departed. "I got a friend waitin' for me," she said, "an' my mother said I was to be 'ome early. An' this is my mother's ironin' night.... 'Ere, Mr. Baffin--was you laughin' at me when I come over funny on the box there? 'Cos I won't sit for anybody what laughs at me. I'll go out charrin', an' spoil me 'ands, that's what I'll do. Don't you think I could learn to do charrin' if I wanted to? I can learn a lot if I try."

"Don't spoil your hands," said Baffin; "they are beautiful hands."

Baffin did not flatter her. Prudence's hands were as the hands of a lute-player--slender and white and sensitive, flowing from wrists which carried themselves subtly, like a fair swan's neck. Such hands, I believe, may be produced by the simple process of being folded gracefully for ten generations. We often wondered, Baffin and I, whence Prudence derived those hands. That much-talked-of lady, Prudence's mother, had never been presented to us; but--frail hands and a frail spirit! Which of these was the mother's gift?

"Hee! hee!" giggled Prudence, as she spread the little hands before her, "yew ain't 'arf a tease, are yew, Mr. Baffin? ... Funny 'ands fur charrin', ain't they, though? ... May I flap your letter-box as I go out? It don't 'arf rattle. Oo, I _em_ a silly girl, _I_ em! 'Ere, I say--when I come to sit agen, shall I bring my mouth-organ, and show you 'ow I'm learnin' meself to play 'The Bluebells of Scotland'? An' you'll look for my picture card, wown't you, 'cos my mother give it to me? And please let me sit agen soon. Oy revoy."

When it became quite clear, from the silence of the letter-box flap, that Prudence had wholly departed, Baffin sat himself wearily down and groaned.

"What the deuce ought one to do?" he demanded, with great earnestness.

"This being your affair," I answered, "you will have to think out that little problem for yourself. The circumstance of your living in a Christian country will not ... prove helpful."

"Don't tell Brink," said Baffin. "He'll want to poison her."

* * * * *

Seven days later Prudence came bursting in Baffin's studio on a mission of protest.

"'Ere, Mr. Baffin," she exclaimed, "what about this spyin'? I down't like it at all, I down't, and my mother down't like it; an' will you arst your friend, Mrs. Vesey, to mind 'er own business? Seems to take a lot of interest in me an' my business, she does, an' I down't like it, an' my mother down't like it, 'cos it is no business of 'ers to bother about my business, an' I believe she's got a lotter funny ideas in 'er 'ead, an' I down't know what she means, an' I down't like 'er.

"What's she wanter come to our 'ouse for at all? She comes round in 'er carriage, she does. Oo, you oughter see the funny cross-eyed coachman what she's got! Oo, and she don't 'arf wear no rings, neether. An' my mother says you sent 'er, cause she tole my mother so, and what does she wanter come fussin' round _our_ place for--settin' the neighbours talkin'? An', 'ere, I say, Mr. Baffin, she's gointer take me to the London 'Ippodrome."

"You leave it to Mrs. Vesey," said Baffin subsequently. "_We_ can't manage Prudence, but Mrs. Vesey can. _She'll_ fix up Prudence. Consulted her lawyer yesterday.... Oh, they'll settle that nobleman all right."

Not long after this conversation Prudence's visits to the studio were temporarily suspended. Prudence was out of town. Mr. Baffin would explain to inquiring spirits that she had taken it in her head to go on tour as a chorus girl. "A cheap sort of holiday, don't you know!"

In due course Prudence returned to town.

Her first professional visit was paid to Baffin, and it pained me to notice that her very first observation caused that gentleman to blush. "I 'ave got some queer friends, I ave. What you think some saucy 'ound 'as done _now_? Sent along a _cradle_ to my 'ouse! Do you know 'oo it was, Mr. Baffin? I bin away, you know--nursin' my sick uncle at Ramsgate, you know--an' it come while I was down there. I on'y got back from Yarmouth yesterday, an' the first thing I see was this joke. Silly joke, wasn't it, Mr. Baffin? 'Cos Mrs. Vesey was at _our_ 'ouse.

"An', 'ere, I say, Mr. Baffin, my gran'pa died when I was nursin' him at Margate, an' there's some money comin' to me, on'y it's goin' to be took care of for me, so's I can dror a little every week. An' my mother's makin' me a noo 'at.

"'Ere, an' I can't sit for you be the day any more, Mr. Baffin, 'cos my mother's lonely, an'--an'--I don't like to leave my mother be 'erself all day. I got to go home to my--my mother now; an' I can come at eleven in the mornin', and go away to dinner, an' come back in the afternoon and stay till teatime--see? On'y I can't stop later than teatime, an' I can't stop all day, 'cos I don't like leavin' my mother, an' I got to go back an'--an' 'ave a look at 'er, like--see? Oo-_er_, I _am_ late, Mr. Baffin: I ought to 'ave been back to my mother 'arf a hour ago. Oh, do let me go, Mr. Baffin! My--my mother might get very ill if I didn't get back to her punctual."

"Lying little fathead!" observed Mr. Baffin later.

Prudence's faith in our simplicity remained unshaken. "Time you went home to your mother now," Baffin would assert at fitting intervals. And Prudence would answer, "Oo-er, yes; my mother 'll be waitin' for me. I mustn't keep my mother waitin'!"

The value of her services grew less (if possible) at every sitting. Her capacity for wriggling returned to her with unabated force: the giggles came back, too, and the original fund of anecdote.

Mr. Baffin congratulated himself on these signs. "We'll keep up the pretence at 'sitting' a _little_ longer," he said, "and then I'll deny myself the luxury of her assistance for a month or two. We'll call it a 'cure' on Monday."

But when Monday came, I noticed at once certain evidences of a "relapse" in Prudence. The tears had come back, and the sulks and the silence. Even Baffin's reminder that mother's hour for being visited had arrived did not seem to move her. "I'm an un'eppy gel, I am," said Prudence.

"I want to ask you something, Mr. Baffin."

"Yes, yes," said Baffin.

"I--I on'y wanted to arst you," Prudence was saying, "do--do you believe in bookmakers?"

"What?" said Baffin.

Prudence repeated her inquiry.

"I--I don't believe in--in auctioneers," said Baffin, blinking.

"I know you down't," responded Prudence. "But I want to know your opinion of bookmakers--_this time_."

*XXXVI*

*A BIRTHDAY PARTY*

I was sitting on the gas-stove in Dr. Brink's refectory when Mr. William Dawkins entered the consulting-room. And having applied my eye to the squint-hole so thoughtfully provided by Dr. Brink for the education of his guests, I was able to view and rejoice in the arrival of Mr. Dawkins.

That gentleman's "entrance," as they say in the Strand, was decidedly impressive. He came in under the escort of three cronies, and he was wearing a white waistcoat and a smile and a blood-stained head. He was singing.

"Did you collect all this by the side of the Zuyder Zee?" inquired the doctor, in his softest bedside voice.

The patient offered no reply to this question; but smiling, oh, so happily, he continued to pour forth the fresh, glad notes of his voluntary. The largest and dirtiest member of the escort, feeling, evidently, that the circumstances demanded explanation, was accordingly so kind as to offer it.

"This," he said, "is Bill Dawkins. Young Bill Dawkins, you know: 'im what works at the coal-wharf."

The doctor bowed. "Bill is a hearty fellow," he said, "and his head has been banged about damned awful, and you have not introduced me to him a moment too soon. I shall have to stitch that forehead."

Mr. Dawkins received this information with his sunniest smile. "Don't be shy, ole love," he said. "Bill don't fret, thank Gawd. My name is Bill Dawkins. Thank Gawd fur that!"

"I shan't be shy," replied the doctor, with a reassuring smirk, as he fumbled amongst a case of cutlery. "What have you been up to, by the way?"

Mr. Dawkins, however, had relapsed into melody: and the only answer which Dr. Brink received to his inquiry was the assurance that he was Mr. Dawkins's Bluebell.

"What _has_ he been up to?" asked the doctor again, addressing himself to the largest escort.

"Eh?" said that gentleman.

"I say," repeated the doctor, preparing for action, "that I'd like to know what he's been up to?"

"'Oo been up to?" inquired the escort.

"William," said the doctor.

"'E ain't been up to nothing. This is young Bill Dawkins. '_E_ ain't done no 'arm."

"But what is the cause of all this?"

"All what?" demanded the escort, with a touch of wonder.

"All this damage," explained the doctor patiently. "Has he been fighting?"

"Lord bless ye, no, sir!" whispered the escort, hoarse with horror. "'_E_ ain't been fightin'. Bill Dawkins is a gentleman!"

"Then," cried the doctor, at last permitting himself to show heat, "who in the devil's name has been mutilating him?"

The escort looked blank. "Mutinate--mutinate," he repeated thoughtfully. "I ain't 'eard about that, sir."

The doctor sighed, and soaked some dressing. "Could you think carefully," he then suggested, "and tell me how he came to meet this trouble?"

"What trouble?" murmured the escort. He put his head on one side and opened his mouth, and his resemblance to an inquisitive owl was pathetic. "What trouble do you mean, sir?"

"_This_," cried the frenzied gentleman, pointing wildly to Mr. Dawkins's wounds.

"'Is _'ead_, do ye mean, sir?" demanded the escort.... "O-o-o-h! _That_ don't matter, sir.... _It's 'is birthday_."

"Oh," said the doctor, applying stitches, "I see. A celebration?"

"On'y his birthday, sir: just a plain birthday. 'E's thirty-two to-day, ole Bill is. It's 'is birthday, see?"

The doctor did see, and he stitched away emphatically. Mr. Dawkins left off singing. And when the repairs had been completed, it appeared that their influence had extended far beyond the damaged forehead. Mr. Dawkins sat up in his chair a sober man.

"Cheer up, Bill!" exhorted his bodyguard in chorus.

"I am cheered up," responded William, with a November edition of the smile. "My name is Dawkins. On'y--on'y me nose itches. Got 'ny biceps, Doctor?"

"Eh? What?" snapped the doctor.