Part 3

Chide, taking the cigarette from her lips, placed it between his, which silenced them. And then she took his hands, and with a little laugh--the same old creak of a laugh--she widened the gaping juncture of her bodice, and placed his senseless hands within it, where they lay warm beside her bosom. The sudden contact of the ice-cold substance forced a little shriek from her.

"That's a good idea, mate, that is," declared her Strephon. "'Ope you won't catch cold?"

"Co-old?" cried the woman, with a little tremor. "Co-ld be damned. Us women is different from you blo-o-kes. We kin sta-and more cold. We got more warmth be na-ature."

"I see," said Strephon, and he blew forth a fat, contented cloud of cigarette smoke.

There was a silence, disturbed by the chattering of the woman's teeth. Then, at last, with a sudden catching of the breath, she spoke again--

"'Ere," she said, "'ere"--and she uttered the familiar creak--"I'm doin' this because I like you. Wonder if you like me?"

"Ho," reflected Strephon, "you're all right--considering what you are."

*VII*

*ON THE PROPERTIES OF WATER*

"Doctor ... can you tell me if water is a safe thing for anybody to drink?"

She was a wizened, alert little woman, having bright eyes and an eager face. The back of the doctor's neck, which I spied through my peephole, grew red under pressure of the secret emotions occasioned by this question.

"As to that," replied the doctor, "I--ahem--er--I--well, in fact--er--ahem--you see, er--Mrs.--Mrs.----"

"Mrs. Skelp, sir," interpolated the caller. "Mrs. Skelp, of Peacock Street. You must remember me, sir. I've 'ad you in for me last three."

"Why, of course, I remember you, Mrs. Skelp," responded the shameless physician; "your name had slipped my memory. And how are they all doing?"

"Nicely, thank you, sir," said Mrs. Skelp. "Excepting," she added, as if with a sudden afterthought--"the pore little thing what died. Although I'm sure, doctor--and many's the time I said the same to Skelp--I'm sure you done _your_ best. Though 'ow you made seven visits of it when the child was on'y ill five days is a thing I never could--but, there, let bygones be bygones. About this water now. You think that water's a safe sort of thing for anybody to drink, Doctor?"

"It's--ahem--it's a--er--a natural sort of drink, you know," suggested the doctor.

"Why, cert'nly, Doctor," admitted Mrs. Skelp. "On'y ... Well, so far as that goes, you could say the same of milk."

"You could," assented Dr. Brink.

"And yet," pursued his patient, "it is well known to all of us what milk will do for the system. Look 'ow it puffs you out. Look at that baby of mine, the pore little thing what died. You did your best, Doctor, we all know, but we've often thought since as milk was at the bottom of it. It doesn't do for the likes of us to set ourselves up against the doctor, but you'll remember yerself that I had my suspicions about you ordering so much milk. 'What _I_ think she wants,' I said, is one of your biggest bottles of good dark red, and---- But there, let bygones be bygones. What I really come 'ere for is about this water question. I says to mine last night, I says--'e's a drayman, you know, Doctor.'"

The Doctor nodded.

"Well," suggested Mrs. Skelp, "you know what _draymen_ are. Water's no drink for a drayman, Doctor."

"I--I suppose not," ventured the doctor.

"And mine, 'e's a 'eavy, full-bodied build o' man. And so I says to 'im--but what's the good o' sayin' _anythink_ to 'im. The long and the short o' it is, Doctor, as 'e's took to the water 'abit.

"I meantosay," continued Mrs. Skelp, having marked the doctor's grin, "I meantosay as 'e's sworn off 'is licker.

"'E's a great reader is mine, you see. 'E sets up in bed for hours o' a Sunday morning and gets through as much as three-pennyworth o' papers at a setting. Not that I 'olds with so much readin', mind you. 'Moody boys an' readin' gals,' we used to say--well, you know the rest, Doctor. It's a thankless 'abit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A certificate of what?" demanded the doctor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*VIII*

*THE WAY OF THE EAST*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do not know it.

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

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

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

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

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

*IX*

*THE 'POTHECARY*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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