Part 4

"He writes, does he?" said the 'Pothecary. (I think that the question must have applied to your servant.) "He would. Of course he would. Quite naturally. Just so. Of course. Some people can write. They have the trick. Some people can do anything. Anything. I must pass my final. They thought I was going to be a writer myself once. To write poetry, I suppose. 'He's half a poet,' they use to say, 'half a poet.'

"But I wasn't worth the compliment. I couldn't find the rhymes, you know. I could see it all--sometimes, you know; but I couldn't find the rhymes. Once I nearly reached it, but only once--only nearly. You see, I--I haven't even passed my final. Not yet. But I will. I must. I nearly did it last time--nearly. Nearly."

His voice dropped low; so low that you could hardly hear it. And he looked out to sea again; but not with gladness. I think he saw some sort of hulk or derelict.

*X*

*THE MOTHER'S TRADE UNION*

"My motter," said 'Ost 'Uggins decisively, "is 'Live an' let live.' We won't deny but what the young woman 'as acted wrongful. She 'as broke an important commandment, as we all know, besides puttin' my 'ole establishment to expense and inconvenience. Besides upsettin' my good lady. Besides disgracin' 'er fambily.

"But at the same time I can't forget that my mother's father was 'isself a fondling. And we live in a Keristian age. And the one as is most to blame is the _man_, 'ooever 'e may be, the ugly 'ound. What'll you take, Doctor?"

"Ginger b----," began the doctor, having knowledge of the Mile End drink traffic. But he checked himself, yielding, I suppose, to the reflection that duty called for a more enthusiastic response to 'Ost 'Uggins's hospitality.

"I will have a glass of--of whatever you drink yourself," said the doctor.

'Ost 'Uggins favoured us with a heavy wink. His face and figure as he stood there behind the marble counter of his "saloon compartment" suggested coarseness and obesity and vulgarity and opulence and ignorance, and--and manhood.

They used to say that pigs could fly, Oh, aye, oh! They used to say that pigs could fly A hundred years ago.

It is certain that _this_ pig could fly. For "Live and let live" was his motto. The pig is an animal which is held in unwarrantable disdain by pious men.

Having concluded the wink, 'Ost 'Uggins inserted a ponderous hand into a nook concealed by a framed portrait of himself--it represented Mr. Huggins in the costume of an Arch Grand something or other of the Ancient and Vociferous Order of Somebodies--and produced therefrom a special, private, and particular bottle. This vessel, 'Ost 'Uggins was at pains to make clear, contained "real licker." He did not pour its precious golden drops into the muddy stream of commerce; but, on the contrary, he kept them tightly corked, and in strict reserve for the appreciative palates of his kindred and convives. "This is the real thing," said Mr. Huggins; "no sale for it yere."

"'Ere's to your 'ealth, Doctor," pursued 'Ost 'Uggins, "and to this young man's as well. And 'ere's wishin' that foolish young female well over 'er whack o' trouble. What's the missus 'ad to say to you _to-day_?"

"Same as before," replied the doctor. "She says the girl's a hussy. She says she always knew it. She says you are pig-headed and obstinate, and she _will_ be mistress in her own house, and why don't you put up a notice saying, 'Beds for lying-in kept here,' and be done with it. And if the girl had done her duty and attended to business and kept the glasses washed instead of for ever gossiping with the Jew boys on the saloon side, this thing would never have happened. And if girls are to be petted and pampered for being bad, what is the use of having marriage lines and living decent? She also intimates that your attitude in this matter is not becoming to a married man. If she were a jealous woman she _might_ begin to wonder if----"

Mr. Huggins smiled broadly. "My good lady, as the sayin' goes," quoth he, "would talk the 'ind leg off a donkey. But we understand each other, 'er and me, and ... we've buried three. I bin in this business for forty year, man and boy. I know life. We understand each other, Doctor. What? 'Ave another.

"'Live and let live' is _my_ motter. She bin with us three years, that silly kid. She could go further with the eighteen gallons nor any young woman as ever served in my bar. Where's she to go if my wife as 'er way? And the kid? We buried three ourselves, which is a thing what you might think would soften a woman's 'eart. But it don't, not in circs. like this. These good women they _got_ no 'eart--not when it comes to bad women. It's a sort of--a sort of----"

"Trade unionism," suggested Dr. Brink. And 'Ost 'Uggins, who at first looked solemn and inquiring, gradually smiled his assent to Dr. Brink's suggestion.

"I s'pose poor Phoebe _is_ a blackleg," he mused. "But my motter is 'Live and let live.' She was wonderful coaxing with the disorderlies. What else my missus say to you?"

"She said you were looking for trouble."

"What else?"

"She said, 'Minx!' 'Damned devil!' 'Disgraceful slut!'"

"Anythink else?"

"She said that either the hussy or she would leave this house."

"And what did _you_ say, Doctor?"

"I said that the girl was not fit to be moved, and that SHE couldn't be spared."

"And what did she say to that?"

"She said that we had made up a fine old tale between us, I and her old man."

"Is that the lot?"

"That's the lot."

"Very well then," commented Mr. Huggins. "Do you know what I shall say to it all, Doctor? I shall say: 'Tut, woman; tut!'"

"Meaning?" queried the doctor.

"Meaning?" echoed 'Ost 'Uggins, as he thumped his fist upon the counter, not without menace to its marble surface, "meaning that I am a man of few words: that I _will_ be master in me own 'ouse: that my motter is 'Live and let live.' That I won't see a pore girl drove to ruin not for all the cantankerous whims of all the cantankerous wives in all----.

"Below there! 'Ush!" he added, with a sudden dropping of his voice. "'Ere _is_ the missus!"

* * * * *

"Where you gointer, you George?" demanded the missus, as George prepared to leave us.

"Goin' to find that fat-'eaded boy, my dear," responded George. "There's a barrel wants tappin'."

"There's a lot more than barrels wants tappin' in this 'ouse," said Mistress Huggins, with an air which was evidently intended to be significant of much. "What you done with that gel?"

"Me, my dear?" responded the fist-strong Huggins. "Me? _I_ ain't moved 'er."

"Time you did, then. When's she gointer leave this 'ouse?"

'Ost 'Uggins gently but firmly retreated. "I bin discussin' it over with the doctor, my dear," he explained, upon gaining the little glass door which led into their private parlour. "'_E'll_ tell you all about it. That's right, ain't it, Doctor? You'll tell 'er all about it. Don't forget my motter, Doctor." And Mr. Huggins obliterated himself.

Mrs. Huggins, upon the contrary, and as it might be, intensified herself. "Look here, Doctor What-its-name," she said, "I kin spot the little game what is bein' played between the landlord an' you, same's if I was partner. You are gettin' up a conspiracy. See? _I_ know it. _I_ can't be fooled."

Mrs. Muggins was a mud-coloured woman, with a smouldering eye. She had rings on every finger and more knuckles than rings.

"_I_ can't be fooled!" she repeated. "What you doin' with that gel?"

"Leaving her where she is," responded the doctor. "She really isn't fit to be moved." He added this information in the tone of one imparting confidences to a friend.

"Fit or not fit, do you suppose I'm gointer _let_ 'er stop there? A low, ondecent 'ussy like what she is, to lie between my honest sheets! Take the gel away, I tell you! Do you want to make trouble between a man and 'is wife? Take the gel away!"

Dr. Brink assumed a highly authoritative tone. "It is my duty as a doctor, madam," said he, "to warn you that the girl is not fit to be moved. And your husband, who in law is the responsible head of this house, agrees with me that----"

"Why ain't she fit to be moved? Answer me that?" rasped the woman.

"Because," said the doctor, as 'Ost 'Uggins's expressive features came peeking round the doorpost, "because a poor girl of twenty who has just given birth to----"

"Given birth!" shrieked the woman. _"Given birth_! And in my 'ouse!

"The disgraceful, shameless thing! And me to be kept in ignorance! And now I think of it, I did seem to think or fancy as I heered a squallin'. In _my_ 'ouse above all! May the Lord---- 'Ssh! What's that?"

"That," explained 'Ost 'Uggins, obtruding a further portion of his face, "is the little bleater callin' for 'is vittles."

Mrs. Muggins's face grew strangely red, her lip grew strangely tremulous. "It's a funny thing to me," she said, "to think as I wasn't allowed to know.... 'Oo's with 'er?"

"Mrs. Tuck, from the cabyard," responded 'Ost 'Uggins, "'as laid the fondling out an' that."

Mrs. Huggins stamped a foot. "You clumsy fool!" she cried. "What do we want your Mrs. Tucks for? A drunken piece like she is! Ain't you got enough to do in the bar without pokin' your nose into a woman's business like what this is?

"And me the last to 'ear of it! In me own 'ouse, too! Me that has buried three.

"Mrs. Tuck! Fools! Let me pass, you George! That child 'll 'ave convulsions in a minute! ... Mrs. Tuck in my 'ouse!"

* * * * *

"I wish," murmured the doctor hopelessly, as he mopped his forehead, "that I could understand the rules of their Society."

*XI*

*THE DIAGNOSIS*

I have heard it said by the enemies of Dr. Brink that he is surly, or, as some prefer to have it, brusque. I cannot too strongly express my disagreement with this view. I know the doctor intimately, and I can assert with confidence that in private intercourse he is the soul of courtesy, exactitude, and punctilio. If, during business hours, he becomes what Mrs. Duke calls "crisp"--and I won't deny that this thing sometimes happens--it behoves us, as an audience of Christian people, to view this failing with the eye of charity, and to think of the temptations which the poor man has to face.

Bovingdon Street has many graces; but gifts of mind are not conspicuous amongst them. The capacity for giving evidence is possibly an instinct and possibly an art, and even more possibly it is both. But it is a certain thing that working a mangle makes you stupid. Which, of course, accounts for Mrs. Rafferty.

She called in yesterday--a little, jug-shaped woman, having a limp fringe and mysterious pains. She is a fine example of the sort of temptation which is always luring on the Doctor to display his horrible power of crispness. She is a fine example of the Bovingdon Street matron.

I happened to be helping James to make a pancake when she came along, and I was therefore privileged to overhear the particulars of Mrs. Rafferty's disorder. And if I record exactly the dialogue to which I listened, you will be able to judge as well as I or Mrs. Rafferty whether the Doctor's sixpennyworth of diagnosis was value for money. Behold, the chronicles:--

MRS. RAFFERTY: It's my pore back I come to see you for, Doctor: that and a sort of dizziness what takes me in the leg. And me throat is sore. And I gits sich 'orrid nightmares, Doctor, and I was goin' to arst you, Doctor, do you think it right for anyone to be always feeling thirsty? Because----

DR. BRINK: How long has this been going on?

MRS. R.: I don't say as the feelin' thirsty is a unpleasant feelin', mind you; but I wondered if it was nat'ral. That's all I'm wonderin' about, Doctor. You can't 'elp noticin' anythin' like that, and anybody would fancy it's a bit queer to be _always_ feelin' thirsty. And then the 'eadaches, Doctor! They comes on all so sudden, Doctor--unexpected, like; and if it wasn't----

DOCTOR: How long has this been going on?

MRS. R.: You can see yerself 'ow pale I'm lookin', Doctor. I 'ad a drop o' stout for me breakfast 'smornin'--no more'n would fill a teacup, Doctor--and believe me or believe me not, it brought on the pains that fearful I was obliged to scream. What do you think is the matter with me, Doctor?

DOCTOR: I shall be better able to tell you when you've answered a few questions. In the first place, how long has this sort of thing been going on?

MRS. R.: It's the pain more'n the longness of it, Doctor, which I look to. And if I close my eyes and touch anythink cold with me 'ands I kin see a lot of funny green things all in front--floatin', if you understand me, Doctor. Me 'usband, when 'e was a sowjer abroad in Dublin, 'e got took with the same thing, along o' eatin' 'ysters in a onfit state.

DOCTOR: How is your appetite, by the way?

MRS. R.: I was wonderin' if me lungs is affected, Doctor. If ever I drink a cup of very 'ot tea I kin feel a funny sensation right down me froat. What I reely want is change of hair.

DOCTOR: Do you drink much tea?

MRS. R.: It's good tea what we 'ave.

DOCTOR: Do you drink much tea?

MRS. R.: And besides, Doctor, I don't see as tea kin 'urt me, because me an' my 'usband we're rather partickler about the class of----

DOCTOR: Do you drink much tea?

MRS. R.: And then again, Doctor, why should me 'air be fallin' out? I'm not a old woman. Thirty-six is my age, and I ain't ashamed to own it. It's a pity me 'air is fallin' out because they say as I'm a young-looking woman for my age. And----

DOCTOR: When did you first notice that your hair was falling?

MRS. R.: I don't think that the state of me 'air is anythink to be ashamed of, even now, mind you. But still it ain't a very pleasant thing, especially at my age. Is it anythink to do with what I eat, do you think, Doctor? I often wonder.

DOCTOR: How is your appetite?

MRS. R.: It isn't the quantity I was thinkin' of, Doctor, so much as the class of food as we go in for. We both of us got a taste for 'am an' bloaters, and so forth.

DOCTOR: Do you enjoy your food?

MRS. R.: But if me 'air is fallin' out on that account----

DOCTOR: Are you a hearty eater?

MRS. R.: Of course, Doctor, I on'y want to know what's right.

DOCTOR: You say that your appetite is good?

MRS. R.: I was sayin' about us bein' partial to 'am and so forth, Doctor. If you think I oughter stop it, I kin easy do so. I on'y wanter do what's right. What's your opinion about me, Doctor? You can see I'm very ill.

DOCTOR: I'm giving you some medicine, Mrs. Rafferty--you've brought your bottle, I see--it's a strong tonic, and there are three pills with it, which----

MRS. R.: I forgot to arst you, Doctor. Do you think a drop of stout--as much as you kin get into a egg-cup--would 'urt a little boy of five years old what's got a poverty of 'is blood? There's a neighbour o' mine--a very nice woman--wh----

DOCTOR: About these pills, Mrs. Rafferty: I want you to take one when you get in, one before you go to bed, and one----

MRS. R.: Can I take a little slice of 'am, Doctor, or must I live on slops and that?

DOCTOR: You can eat exactly what you please. This medicine will put you right. It is a very strong, dark red tonic. Do you understand about the pills, now?

MRS. R.: She's a nice woman, and it's sad to see her strugglin' along by 'erself wiv that boy to keep. And so I told 'er----

DOCTOR: Send her round to see me. You'll get your medicine from the dispenser.

MRS. R.: About me wrists, Doctor: I find that one is thicker than----

DOCTOR: Come and see me again when you've finished that medicine. Pay outside.

MRS. R.: And, Doctor, is there anything more besides the physic? I thought perhaps you would give me a pill.

DOCTOR: I am giving you three pills. One of them I want you to take when you get in, another at night, and----

MRS. R.: About the money, Doctor: I s'pose as it'll do if I pay next week?

*XII*

*THE TUSKERS*

It has not been the fortune of the present historian to enjoy a personal experience of the state of matrimony. But he has never been lacking in awe for the wonders attaching to that institution. It has always seemed to him, looking upward, as it were, from the mire of bachelordom, that the married mind is subject to rare emotions, productive of a singular philosophy which one must view with astonishment, if not with envy.

In illustration of my meaning, permit me to cite the case of the Tuskers.

The Tuskers, as we were definitely informed by Mr. Tusker, have been tasting the wedded blisses for nearly eighteen years. And Mr. Tusker called in recently at Doctor Brink's in the matter, as he expressed it, of "any old bottles, any old rags; old bones, rabbit-skins, waste paper to buy," which somehow looks wrong. Let us try again--

Any old bottles? Any old rags? Old bones, Rabbit-skins, Waste paper, To buy!

That is better. Mr. Tusker is nothing if not lyrical.

Also, he is a massy-jawed person in a muffler, having a dent over one eye and a limpy walk. Likewise, he is accompanied by an objectionable smell, arising partly from his trade, profession, or occupation. It is an impressionist sort of smell. The impression it suggested to me was that Mr. Tusker had been subjected to long, long years of solitary confinement in an over-heated chicken-coop.

Mr. Tusker, having recited his little poem, was rewarded by a "Not to-day, thank you," from Doctor Brink.

"What?" cried Mr. Tusker. "Not any old bottles; any old rags?"

"No," insisted Doctor Brink.

"Ho," quoth Mr. Tusker. "Right you are, then. One minute, Doctor. The missus. Ahtside. Can I trouble you?"

"How?" inquired the doctor.

"You know, mate," expounded Mr. Tusker. "Below par. Orfer oats. See? Jes' run the rule over 'er, Doctor; will ye?"

"Certainly," replied the doctor, the light of intelligence at last illuminating his eye. "Bring the lady inside."

Mr. Tusker accordingly repaired to the roadway, where his barrow was in waiting. It was a roomy barrow, filled to overflowing with bulging sacks, one of which, being pushed, came to life as Mrs. Tusker, and walked into Doctor Brink's consulting-room.

She was a tired old sack, was Mrs. Tusker, much patched, even as to her face, which was further distinguished by being bruised in several places, a fact which accentuated its native homeliness.

"Below par. Orfer oats," repeated Mr. Tusker, with a jerk of the thumb in the direction of the old sack. "Jes' run yere rule over 'er, Doc."

"Had a bad accident, hasn't she?" began the doctor. "That plaster----"

"Never mind the plaster," said the husband.

"No," repeated Mrs. Tusker, "never mind that."

"Orfer oats, see?" prompted Mr. Tusker.

"Ain't got no appetite," confirmed the lady.

"'Er system. See?" added Mr. Tusker.

"Yus," assented Mrs. Tusker. "Me system."

"Jes' run yere rule over 'er," said Mr. Tusker.

"Well," mused the doctor, "want of appetite doesn't produce itself, you know. I mean to say---- Her face now. It's very swollen. The lower part espec----"

"Never mind 'er face, ole man," suggested Mr. Tusker.

"No," said the patient; "never mind me face."

"_I_ done that, ye see," remarked Mr. Tusker.

"Yus," replied Mrs. Tusker, "'e done that."

Doctor Brink, after staring hard at Mr. Tusker, resumed his inspection of the wife. "I don't know what sort of appetite you expect to have," he said, "with those four bruises. Her face is simply pul----"

"Oh!" reflected Mr. Tusker, "them marks is out o' date. They put me away for them."

Mrs. Tusker nodded.

"I--I don't quite understand," exclaimed the doctor.

"I done 'em of a Saturday night, ye see," explained the husband. "And they put me away to the Scrubs. Three weeks I was in."

"Three weeks," repeated Mrs. Tusker.

"They on'y let me out s'mornin'."

This statement was audited and found correct by Mrs. Tusker. "On'y this mornin'," she said.

"This is the state I find 'er in," continued Mr. Tusker. "Orfer oats. They put me away. See? And there wasn't no one to look arter 'er."

"Nobody to look arter me," agreed the wife.

"Her neck must be troubling her too," began the doctor. "I see she's been rather badly sca----"

"Never mind the scalding," protested Mr. Tusker. "Give 'er some physic, Doctor."

"Yus," echoed Mrs. Tusker. "Gimme some physic."

"You see," explained the husband, evidently determined that this important detail in the history of the case should not be overlooked, "I bin away. They put me away for three weeks. And this is 'ow I find 'er. She ain't 'ad no one to look arter 'er. See? Give 'er some physic, Doctor."

So they had their physic, and they went away.

I watched them passing up the road, Mr. Tusker limping behind his barrow and this peculiar old sack of his limping behind Mr. Tusker. And Mr. Tusker, as he limped, was declaiming a kind of poem--a rude sort of piece; but I've no doubt that in the ears of the old sack-thing at his heel, that which he uttered was as the music of the spheres. And the words of his poem were these:--

Any old bottles? Any old rags? Old bones, Rabbit-skins, Waste paper, To buy!

As they receded into the endless perspective of Bovingdon Street, the sacks became confused in my sight, and I wondered which of them contained the rags and bones and bottles, or which was occupied by rabbit-skins and Mrs. Tusker.... Not that it really mattered.

*XIII*

*ART LOVERS*

Mr. Clarence Gordon Prince appeared first in the capacity of a patient. He came to have a tooth out. "Three teeth out, to tell ye the troof, Doctor," he added, and with the air of a man who had given a liberal order and knew it, he seated himself, throwing back his head and shutting both eyes.

"Want 'em all out now--at once?" demanded the doctor.

"Cert'nly," responded Clarence. "I'm a gunner."

Dr. Brink evidently perceived the point of this observation, for he made no further speech, but drew the teeth forthwith. And Clarence kept on smiling.

He performed his subsequent ablutions in silence, but, having completed them and deposited three sixpences upon the consulting-room table, he again spoke.

"Well, Doctor," he said, "I'll say good-night, and pop off," which he did.

But when he reached the door-step, Baffin found him, and Baffin rejoiced in the find. "You've been a soldier?" exclaimed Baffin.

"Gun-layer. 'Owitzer Battery, R.A. Nine year. Invalided." Clarence smiled again.

"I want you," said Baffin. "Wait there."

Mr. Prince accordingly waited, and his patience was rewarded by the reappearance of Baffin, with whom was Dr. Brink. "This gentleman," said the doctor, "is an artist. He wants you to sit for him. How tall are you?"

"Six-one-and-a-'arf."

"How much round the chest?"

"Forty-two."

"Round the arm?"

"Twenty."

"Got a shovel?"

Mr. Prince's smile gave place to a suspicious frown. "I could _get_ one," he said, at last.

"Bring it along to-morrow," commanded the doctor. "We want you to sit. You'll be well paid. You're out of work, I suppose?"

"I'm out of work all right," responded Mr. Prince. "But--but ... what you want me to do?" demanded Mr. Prince.

"Never mind that," he was told. "Just come along. And wear your oldest clothes. And bring the spade."

To the surprise of both Baffin and the doctor, Clarence did come along, accompanied by the spade. He was very out of work indeed, it seemed, and had sold his medals to pay for the comfort of having his teeth out, and for subsequent treatment at the "African Chief." He wanted work, and was willing, but this yere sitting game--"what was it?"

Baffin took him to the "studio," _nee_ wash-house, and there he drank some tea, and was confronted by an easel, and was induced to seat himself upon the extreme corner of a small chair, whilst Baffin pretended to sketch him. This proceeding is technically described as putting your model at his ease.