Part 9

I hastened to reply with civility to Mrs. Roper's question, for that lady had just sold to me for ninepence an ancient brass tobacco jar, which expert opinion has since valued at half a guinea.

"Then," said Mrs. Roper, "I will thank you to send the doctor round 'ere. Tell 'im that the stuff what 'e calls medicine is makin' me worse."

"Madam," said I, thinking rather of my benefactress than of my friend, "the doctor is outside now. Shall I----?"

"I thought I seed the shadder of 'is 'at," said Mrs. Roper; "call 'im in."

I called the doctor, as directed, and he came in with a brisk and cheerful air, kicking me brutally upon the shin in passing. I then, very naturally, prepared to retire; but Mrs. Roper held me back.

"_You_ needn't run away, young man," she said. "I ain't ashamed for anybody to 'ear _my sufferings_.... Doctor, what's to be done about me? I'm very ill."

"Where?" said Dr. Brink, a little brusquely.

"It's a funny question for a doctor to ask," responded Mrs. Roper. "I thought we paid you to find things out. But we do not want to waste each other's time, and so I'll tell you.

"What's the matter with me is that I'm dying. That yellow medicine what you sent me 'as brought the pains on worse than ever. You will 'ave to try me with some red. Not that I look to that or any other doctor's stuff to cure me now. Nothing can't cure me now. I've been neglected too long. The on'y thing I got to look forward to now is me little wooden ulster. It'll be a great pleasure to some people, I know, the day the undertaker comes to measure me for it. What are you laughin' at?"

"I wasn't laughing," protested the doctor. "I was yawning."

"Then what are you yawning at?"

"Up all night," explained the doctor.

"Ah!" quoth Mrs. Roper mysteriously, "I see, _you're_ one of the jolly sort.... What you gointer do about me?"

The doctor equivocated. "Where's your husband?" he said.

Mrs. Roper closed both eyes and shook her head. "Wherever the man may be," she responded, "you may be sure as it ain't be the bedside of 'is dying wife. '_E's_ one of your jolly sort, likewise. 'E's one o' them good-tempered, popular fellars, 'e is. _'E_ don't want no medicine."

"I was not proposing to give him any medicine," explained the doctor. "I would like to talk to him concerning the painful state of--ah--health in which--ah--you find yourself. When will he be in?"

"Ain't you got some more riddles you would like to ask a person?" responded Mrs. Roper, with a bitter laugh. "How in gracious do _I_ know when the man will be in? 'E's one of these _pleasant_ men, I tell you. The sort as is always ready with a laugh or a joke or a funny remark. 'E ain't got time, bless you, to trouble 'is jolly self about no wives. 'E's one of your 'appy men--the sort that makes friends, and so on. 'E would rather be out with 'is friends, 'e would, listenin' to their flattery, than sit at 'ome 'ere with 'is lawful wife and 'ear the _truth_ about 'isself. 'E's a plain man, too, and stammers 'orrible."

"I think," suggested Dr. Brink, "that I shall have to call again when he is in, and talk things over with him. I can see," added my excellent and ambiguous friend, "that what you want is more attention."

"What I want," retorted Mrs. Roper, "is me wooden ulster. The sooner the better. Attention won't save me now--even if I could get it. I'm gone too far. And what is the use of a 'usband's idea of attention? If you want to see the kind of attention 'e gives me, just cast your eye on the table there. Them things in the corner is supposed to be lemons. '_E_ sent them in. _Look at 'em_! 'E on'y sent 'em 'cause I asked 'im, mind you. Is it much to ask, d'ye think, Doctor? And me at death's door! Look at 'em, I say. They're furrin lemons."

There was a pause. Then said Mrs. Roper again, "They're furrin lemons. I would say it to 'is face. I ask 'im on me death-bed for lemons and 'e sends me them! Furrin ones! Don't you think they're furrin, Doctor?"

"I'm sure of it," replied the doctor.

There was another pause, during which Mrs. Roper applied a variety of new and second-hand wearing apparel to her eyes. But the gift of articulation soon returned to her.

"I," she explained, with biting irony, "am on'y 'is wife. _I_ ain't jolly. _I_ don't flatter 'im. _I_ don't make a fuss of 'im. _I_ don't make meself agreeable. _I'm_ on'y 'is wife. _I_ on'y tell 'im the truth. What does 'e wanter give good lemons to _me_ for?"

"If you could let me know when he returns," submitted Dr. Brink, "I would talk these matters over with him. In the meantime, I will send you round some medicine, which----"

"What's the good of medicine to _me_?" demanded Mrs. Roper. "I'm on'y 'is wife. You go round to the undertaker's, Doctor, and tell 'im to send me round a wooden ulster. That's the on'y thing as'll bring _me_ any peace. I ain't one of your jolly sort, you see. _I_ don't go round to me cousin Alfered's and make meself agreeable and play nap. 'Is cousin Alfered's, indeed! It isn't 'is cousin Alfered as 'e goes to visit, Doctor; you take my word for _that_, Doctor; I s'pose I'm blind, eh, Doctor? An' deaf an' dumb an' parulised? I s'pose I ain't aware that cousin Alfered 'as got a wife? _A wife_! That's what 'e calls 'er! If she's a honest married woman, Doctor, 'ow d'you account for 'er bein' ser very lovin' to 'er 'usband?"

"I have left off trying to account for these things," explained the doctor. "About your medicine now. I want you----"

But Mrs. Roper had struck a more fascinating theme than that of medicine. "Married!" she ejaculated. "Ha! Married! And she ser jolly! Ser good-tempered, ser fussy, ser full o' compliments! No wonder as my man likes to play nap at 'is cousin Alfered's. There's two or three jolly ones together in _that_ 'ouse.

"She's a 'igh-spirited lady too. Ser full of romps an' all. She reads the papers, too, and listens to their jokes, _and laughs_.

"Well, well, Doctor, it's time that wooden ulster come. It won't arrive before I'm ready for it. This world ain't no fit place for me.

"I ain't jolly enough.

"I'm only a honest wife, I am, what sits at 'ome all day an' tells the truth while other people makes theirselves ser popular. This world is no fit place for honest wives.

"The other ladies are ser jolly; they makes theirselves ser pleasant. They fuss about and flatter you, and laugh at all your jokes. They makes theirselves ser pleasant....

"What's a respectable married woman to do, Doctor?"

*XXVIII*

*THE BLACK HAT*

"What I like Banking Day for," James had privately informed me, "is because _then_ Fatty always puts on a cap. He looks so plain and friendly in a cap."

At which I pondered deeply.

That which I pondered was the important problem of Dr. Brink in his relationship to moral authority and the top-hat.

I had to admit to myself that James's aphorism was justified by facts. The doctor did look more human in a cap. Upon the other hand, he did not in the least look like himself.

"Banking Day" is a solemn occasion in the Brink household. It happens once a fortnight. It affords the doctor an excuse for making holiday--a two hours holiday--the only regular holiday in which he permits himself to indulge. And of this regular and recurrent festival, the cap is an outward and visible sign: the cap and golfing shoes and a poacher's jacket. And a solemn black bag. The solemn black bag is filled with sixpenny pieces. Thus equipped, the doctor goes into the City--"giving'em a treat in Gracechurch Street," he calls it--and deposits the toll which he has extracted from human misery upon some banker's table. He then returns to Bovingdon Street, wearing your right usurer's leer and a shilling cigar. And having in his right hand--the hand he pulls the teeth out with--a fat, white book. It is his vulgar custom, upon such occasions, to publish loudly a statement of accounts, as thus--

"Forty-eight pounds fourteen and sixpence. Do you hear that, my friend? Do _you_ hear it, Baffin? One thousand nine hundred and forty-nine sixpences. Does this compete with literature, young man? Does it equal the material gains of your art, Mr. Baffin? Nineteen hundred sixpences, James, my dear, nineteen hundred and forty-nine. All screwed out of the working man. Damn the working man. What's he made for? Where's that bottle of Burgundy?"

The doctor, in this mood, presents an absurdly human appearance. His cap---it is an old-fashioned neck-freezer, and a trifle small for him at that--sits usually upon one side, and he rolls the cigar between his lips in an unctuous manner, and has even been known to wear his feet upon the mantel-piece. It is always his pleasure under these circumstances to toy with Baffin, who, being so closely related to the Leicestershire Baffins, is quite unjustly credited with a secret sympathy for despotism. In point of fact, however, Baffin has no time to sympathise with anything, except the Baffin School of Impressionist Art. But the doctor, when his cap and the cares beneath it sit lightly on him, chooses to exhibit a cordial sympathy for the supposed convictions of Baffin.

"Dirty beggars, these working men: what, Baffin?" the doctor will observe. "Have to be kept in their places. Eh? What? Sixpence a go, Baffin. Nineteen hundred and forty-nine sixpences. A very reasonable tribute, Baffin; a tribute to education and elegance and the cultivated mind. The feudal system, Baffin, was a fool to our system. You must write and explain it all to the Leicestershire Baffins. What, Baffin?"

Baffin always offered the same reply--

"You _are_ a silly fool, Brink."

Even the surrounding helots recognised and responded to the psychological significance of the doctor's City costume. I shall always remember an observation uttered by Ma Levinsky, who kept the fish shop at the corner.

It was Banking Day, and the doctor, suitably apparelled and accompanied by the bag, was walking West, accompanied by your servant, to whom he had promised to exhibit the interior of a real bank, and also to show how one conducts an operation called "paying in." And when we passed her, Ma Levinsky spoke to us, saying, "Cheero, Doctor, ole love. Got a baby in the bag?" This to THE DOCTOR, mind you! You perceive the weird magic of this cap.

But even the two hours of holiday which the doctor "stood himself" on Banking Days would come to an end, although it was not the least remarkable fact connected with the whole absurd proceeding that the two hours in question began at two o'clock and did not end till half-past six. But when they did end, the doctor's sudden masquerade would also end. The poacher's coat, the golfing shoes, would vanish, and in their place appeared the solemn calf--gent's heavy walking--the not less solemn morning coat--a somewhat tarnished vestment, but of undeniable solemnity--and, lastly, the solemnest thing of all, the final token, the apotheosis--the doctor's black silk hat.

It was a profoundly aged hat. A hat of many lustres, the which had swallowed up its own. But it was a _hat_--a black silk hat, and being such it complied with all the conditions: it sufficed: it left no room for criticism. And you did not catch the doctor looking human when he had that hat on.

I will not pretend that the doctor loved his hat. "It's the price which I pay for my soul, this damned thing," he once explained to me. "I hate to have to take it out with me, but Democracy insists. Democracy has a sense of what is due to it. In Norfolk, you could wear what you liked--your mother's bonnet if you wanted to. But you couldn't think what you liked or love what you liked. Dammit, you couldn't even swear at what you liked. Here, you are at liberty to do what you jolly well please; but as to wearing what you please--why, that's another matter. The doctor is known by his hat. They look for the hat. They expect that. They _pay_ for the hat. And being an honest sort of chap (at bottom), I give them what they pay for. This one cost me ten-and-sixpence."

Neither Ma Levinsky nor her rich relations would dare to bandy chaff with the doctor when he was the doctor--when he wore the hat. Even the leisured classes, airing their minds and matter as they propped up the fabric of the "African Chief," forbore to utter even a whisper of native pleasantry. Even the Jew-boys reserved the shafts of their wit for meaner quarry. The black hat awed them all.

I remember a certain Banking Day when I persuaded the doctor, cap and all, to enter a public-house. It was called by the name of the "Four Soldiers," and a board outside its windows proclaimed that Devonshire cyder could be had within. But when we got within we found that somebody had won some money at somebody else's expense, and that this event was being celebrated. And our advent was accordingly received with criticism and comment: wherefore we departed--quick.

But hardly had we arrived at the surgery when a messenger appeared--a rather anguished messenger, not very lucid. I answered his ring myself, and can therefore speak authoritatively.

"Dockeratome, young man?"

"Yes," I said.

"Telms wanted, quick. Ole Joe Black. Up the pole. Barmy. See? Murder, see? Telms wanted."

"Where?" I inquired.

"Never mind where," responded this helpful emissary. "Telms wanted.... Dockeratome?" he finally demanded, after a reflective pause.

I called the doctor down to him at that stage; and the doctor helped him to unlock his bosom. We found that old Joe Black and his complicated infirmities were to be found at the "Four Soldiers"--the very house of cheer which had so cheerfully exported us about five minutes ago.... I--I wilted. The doctor smiled. He also put his hat on.

When we arrived at the "Four Soldiers" I found myself entering the public-house parlour of that guesthouse a few paces ahead of the doctor. And I also found that a seafaring gentleman with a broken nose had marked my entry.

"'Ere's our little love-child come in again," observed this mariner cheerfully. "Drop Jim a 'int aside the 'ead wiv yere belt-end, Bill." But then----

But then--he saw _the hat_! Bill saw it also. Twenty other merry gentlemen shared also in the vision. And a silence, a sticky silence, thick as treacle, suddenly manifested itself. And we all looked up at the ceiling.

There was a hook on the ceiling, and a piece of rope and a man was hanging there, the rope curled round his body and one leg. The man was addressing the world beneath him; and now that the world had grown strangely silent, his words were plain to hear.

"Call yerselves _men_," the man was saying, "_I_ call ye caterpillars. Stand by, ye greasy toads, and watch a true man 'ang 'isself. 'Ang 'isself, d'y'ear? 'Ang 'isself. I _will_ 'ang meself. I'll 'ang meself dead as dogs' meat, and there's not a swab in Limus dare stop me. Not one in this room. Not a god-forsaken son of a lady in this room. Not even you, Tom Tinker."

Tom Tinker being thus addressed made answer. He happened to be the landlord of the inn, and a regard for his own future caused him to be solicitous for that of the man on the ceiling.

"Don't you be silly, Joe, me lad," he answered. "Don't you be rash. You'll regret it, you know; you will that. Come down, now, when I tell ye; come down before ye forget yeself. D'y'ear me? Come down. You'll make a fool of yeself in a minnit."

The man on the ceiling replied to this suggestion by removing a boot and hurling it at the prophet's head. In so doing, he obtained a view of the solemn countenance and black hat of the doctor.

The strained and tragic expression of our gymnast's visage immediately gave place to one of nervous greeting.

"Evenin', Doctor!" he said.

"Evening!" replied the doctor. "Come off that hook."

"Whaffor?" demanded the man.

"Because I tell you to. Come off, quick."

The man began to whimper. "I can't," he said. "The rope's broke. 'Ow can I?"

"Jump."

"Jump?" echoed the man.

"Yes," said the doctor, "jump. I'll catch you. Jump!"

The man jumped.

We passed out amid a silence more than ever obvious. I remember one thing clearly. The door was held open for me by an effusive, smiling sailor-man--a sailor-man with a broken nose.

I walked out stiffly, with confidence, with pride. I walked in the shadow of THE HAT.

*XXIX*

*ON EARNING SIXPENCE*

Behold our doctor on crutches and having his foot in a sling; deprived also of all burgundies, by the heartless mandate of another doctor. Behold him also in controversy with his daughter.

"You are perfectly insane," said that lady. "Doctor Beaver said quite distinctly that if you so much as moved your leg for the next three days, he wouldn't be answerable for the consequences."

"Haven't I been saying for the last three years that Beaver is an ignorant old quack?" inquired the doctor.

"And now," pursued his daughter, "because a drunken old woman comes round and raves at you, smelling of gin like a--like a cistern, you calmly propose to crawl out and go all the way to Burbidge Street, because her daughter happens to object to the locum. I'm quite sure he's a very decent locum; quite the nicest we've ever had. He's engaged to a school-mistress, and he knitted that waistcoat himself."

"The locum is a blasted young pup," responded Doctor Brink.

"Heavens!" cried his daughter, "whatever is the matter with _this_ locum?"

"He's giving 'em _real drugs_," said the doctor, with gloom.

"What if he is?" argued James; "I don't suppose it'll kill 'em."

"Still," mused the doctor, "when people aren't used to that sort of damfoolery---- I don't want my statistics mucked up. Besides, there's the expense. And----"

"Oh, blow the 'ands,'" replied his little daughter. "You've engaged the man, and you've got to keep him. And you've got to pay him. He's come here prepared to do a week's work, so for goodness sake let him do it. I'm sure he's willing enough, at any rate."

"Willing?" repeated the doctor; "my dear girl, he is the ultimate thing in eagerness. I----"

But the doctor's further observations on this head were interrupted by the entry of the subject of them--a young gentleman in correct dress, with fair hair and a face, who was introduced to me as Doctor Tewksbury.

"I am sorry to say, Doctor," remarked this young man, "that that old woman in Mulberry Buildings is dead."

"What!" cried Doctor Brink. "Poor old Mrs. Thacker? I'm sorry. She was a nice old thing."

"Yes," assented Doctor Tewksbury, "an interesting old hag--such marked symptoms. I wish I'd exhibited bromide."

"It wouldn't have made any difference," said Doctor Brink.

"Of course not," responded Doctor Tewksbury. "She was quite hopeless; but still bromide was clearly indicated. Hullo--foot hurting?"

"Not--not more than usual," answered Doctor Brink. "My back was tickling. That's all. Any news?"

"Nothin' particular," replied the locum, "exceptin' a woman in Burbidge Street. Mrs. Groat, I think the name is. Had a sort of row with her. It's the daughter's case really--a confinement; but when I got there the old cow came to the door and she wouldn't let me in. Said her daughter had engaged with you, and she didn't want no blasted schoolboys. She was rather offensive."

"After all," said Doctor Brink, rising clumsily to his feet and holding hard to all of us, "she _did_ engage with me. It's a damnable nuisance; but I'll have to go round."

"Oh, rot," cried the locum. "Let the old fool rip."

"Wait till Beaver catches you, that's all," observed his daughter.

"You _are_ a fool, Brink," said I.

"She's been round here twice already, while you were out, Tewksbury," continued Doctor Brink. "All the family's been here, in fact; they're much excited and very drunk. I expect they've been working on the patient, and unless we do something she'll get into a frenzy and croak. I shall have to go. Where's my damned hat?"

"Now look here, Fatty," expostulated James, "you simply aren't going to be _allowed_ to go. You----"

"Old girl," said the doctor quietly, "subside. I'm going."

So saying, the doctor grasped my shoulder in a grip that was not all of friendship. "You come the other side," he said to James. "Tewksbury, you mind the shop. Now we're off. Steady, now. Slowly. That's good. Steady, now. Steady. Good again. Oh, Kreisler!"

It was an exciting journey across the sitting-room, and that down the stairway even more so. And when at last we gained the street, the bulk of the journey lay before us. We accomplished it somehow--it lasted less than a year, at any rate--and when we had at last arrived at the interesting residence of Mrs. Groat, and had deposited the doctor on its doorstep, the lady herself came out to greet us.

"'Ow," she said, "yuv come at last, ye bleedin' makeshift!"

We pushed him inside, and the door was closed behind him, and we walked about and waited. When, nearly an hour later, the remaining fragments of my rash friend were restored to us, Mrs. Groat came after them and made further speech.

"Ye spiteful old crow," she cried. "Ye didn't 'arf make 'er 'oller, did ye? I'll show ye spite. I'll pay ye out for bein' ser spiteful. Jes'you see. I'll pay ye out."

Which she did. For when, after making the homeward journey in such a fashion as to cause amazement and amusement to the whole neighbourhood, we did arrive at the doctor's own house, it was to find that a medicine bottle had found its billet on the consulting-room floor by way of the consulting-room window.

Tewksbury came down and helped us to carry the doctor up. And when we had flopped our burden on to a couch, and Tewksbury had leisure for reflection, he said--

"You will never convince me that this was all produced by burgundy."

*XXX*

*DIALOGUE WITH A BRIDE*

She was rather a juvenile sort of bride: so much so, in fact, that a civilised inquirer might have supposed the baby on her breast and the ring upon her finger to be mere playthings.

It was to be gathered, from her opening statement, that she was inured to the married state, and that it held no terror for her.

"If 'e comes it over me," she explained, "I gives 'im a shove in the marf."

She was an attractive child--rather freckled and very shrill; but having cheerful eyes.

"What you recommend me to do about Mine, Doctor? 'E's queer."

DOCTOR BRINK: How queer?

THE BRIDE: Queer in 'is 'ead. Won't talk to nobody. Won't eat. 'E's learnin isself to write short'and.

DOCTOR BRINK: But I think that's rather sensible.

THE BRIDE: More sensible if he was to bring 'ome some money. 'E's a chair-packer's labourer. What's the good o' short'and to a chair-packer's labourer?

DOCTOR BRINK: Perhaps he has ambitions.

THE BRIDE (_gloomily_): Not 'im. 'E's got the sulks. If you go an' give it a big name like that, 'e'll never get better. I ain't even let 'im know I've come to you--'e's ser easy encouraged. What 'e wants is a dose o' your pale yaller--even my ole gran'ma can't drink that, and she's been takin' medsin since _so_ 'igh. That's what 'e wants: a dose o' your pale yaller and a flip be'ind the ear.

DOCTOR BRINK: How old is your husband?

THE BRIDE: Old enough to do some work. 'E'll be eighteen in March.

DOCTOR BRINK: He's out of employment, then?

THE BRIDE (_stiffly_): Well, 'e ain't out of employment, on'y 'e don't go to work. There ain't no call for 'im to go, not unless 'e wants to. We're independent.

DOCTOR BRINK: Indeed?

THE WIFE: Yus. We've 'ad some luck, through the misfortune of losin' 'is father. There's a matter of two 'underd pound at the lawyer's, and more to come, they say.

DOCTOR BRINK: It's a pity he can't find some work to do. Two hundred pounds won't last for ever, you know.

THE WIFE: There ain't no call for 'im to look for work. When the money comes we're goin' inter business.

DOCTOR BRINK: Oh! What sort of business?