Front matter (continued 2)

"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," née 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.

At the end of an hour the soldier was asked to stand up and drink beer out of a jug, a function which he performed with very tolerable grace. He was then allowed to go home.

"But come here early to-morrow morning," said Baffin. "Do you think you'll like the work?"

"Work seems all right," responded Mr. Prince. "I'll come at nine o'clock."

He arrived at the time stated, having carefully attired himself in his Sunday "blacks," and a white turn-down collar. He had likewise operated with sand upon the metal parts of his shovel, so that that instrument glittered exceedingly. Also, he had perfumed his hair. And Baffin ordered him to go home again and reinvest himself with the habiliments of toil.

The spade we kept and improved upon in a corner of the doctor's little garden—a corner in which rare bulbs were buried. Clarence returned to us looking natural and dirty, and wearing a resigned expression.

Then he sat, or rather stood, in earnest, whilst Baffin "studied" him in pencil and charcoal and crayon, and in every other sort of pigment.

And when the artist had tired of this employment, Mr. Prince came down from his platform and studied the pictures with an air of cold reserve. He said that he thought he might as well be going. And he went.

The subsequent sittings were in all respects a repetition of the first. But at the end of the week, a strange thing happened. Mr. Clarence Gordon Prince permitted himself to give utterance to a remark. He had been paid his first week's wages—a sovereign, and, having spat upon this coin and donned his jacket, he tapped Mr. Baffin with his knuckle and performed the feat in question. "One day—me lad," he said, "I'll show ye my pictures."

And on the last day of his engagement he duly fulfilled the promise. He had spat upon a sovereign and donned his jacket, just as before, and he had walked towards the door, but half-way there he stopped and faced his late employer.

"Look here," he said, as he quietly divested himself of his jacket and waistcoat, "look 'ere, ole man, you've acted very fair to me, and now I'm gointer show ye my pictures."

With this preface he removed his shirt.

The wondering Baffin was then confronted with a naked chest—a chest of many colours. "The Duchess of Gainsborough," said Mr. Prince. "There's eight weeks' work in 'er. Done in Ceylon. I was soldiering in Ceylon. If you look round the corner you will see a picture of Eve bein' tempted by the serpent. On me right arm there's 'Erod's daughter, and on me left a photo of Jim Sayers. 'Ow's all this for picture work?

"I was under the needle for pretty near a twelve-month, and time I left the service there was on'y one man in the battery as could show the 'arf of what I can. I always 'ad a fancy for colour work."

The model slowly resumed his clothes. "I love a well-done chest, I do," he said.

"Not, mind you, as I am one to turn 'is nose up at a picture on the wall, same's you might make yesself. Not at all. But me own fancy is for breast and arm work. That has always bin my fancy.

"And I look upon you as a very fair and civil-spoken young man, which is why I let you see me. I'm a bit particular 'oo I show my pictures to. I'll be getting along now. Good-night, sir."

On the threshold of the door he paused again.

"One more thing, young man. I ain't the sort of bloke to show me chest around; but you've treated me decent, man to man, as the saying goes. And, therefore, if ever the fancy takes you to show me to your friends, why say the word and—'ere I am.

"I'll say good-night now."

XIV

THREE BABIES

One of the disadvantages attaching to Dr. Brink's profession is its stay-at-home character. A doctor has not time to travel. And it is a well-known fact that travelling improves the mind.

Think, for instance, how my doctor's mind would relish the improvement associated with a short spell of travel on the London, Tilbury, and Something Railroad! I travelled on this system only yesterday—it is the direct route to Dr. Brink's—and I protest that one of my fellow-travellers—a baby—was really most improving.

This baby came into our compartment head downwards, and advertised his displeasure with this state of things by means at his command.

A little pale-faced girl who followed Baby uttered remonstrances, which were answered by the little rickety boy who carried him. I saw and heard these things but vaguely, because our carriage was filled with noise and smell, and its lights were dim. And many people had breathed within it, and the gentlemen about me were smoking shag tobacco.

The little pale-faced girl expressed herself with emphasis, coughing and gasping between each adjective. There was a great deal of fringe upon her forehead and a great deal of feather on her head, and some broken teeth within her mouth. She dug at her companion with a bony elbow, as they stood there, being supported in an upright attitude by means of other people's knees and also by means of a rack provided for light articles only. "You clumsy tyke, you!" shrilled the girl, by way of concluding her address.

"Hee-haw!" responded the youth, with satire. It was made evident by certain signs, such as the cheerfulness of his conversation and a sort of négligé as to his fringe, that he had spent his evening amid congenial surroundings. '"Old the kid yeself, then," he added. And his companion took the child.

"What you done with them suckers?" she then demanded; upon which the young man brought forth bull's-eyes from his trouser pocket. With one of these the little girl essayed to comfort Baby, holding the evil thing between his toothless gums. But Baby continued, as before, to moan and writhe.... "I fink that beetroot ain't agreein' wiv 'im," said the girl.

The little rickety boy made no reply. He was busy, having a handful of cigarette-ends to strip and bind anew with paper. "Why don't you stop 'is noise?" he at length demanded, applying his tongue to the completed "fag." "Call yeself a mother?"

The fact as to Baby's authorship I had, of course, suspected. I perceived, however, that our fellow-passengers did not mind.

The girl did not allow the young man's question to remain unanswered. "Never trouble," she said, "what I call myself. What do you call yeself? A man, I suppose. Funny sort of man, ain't you? More like a ape. More like a crab. Fine 'usband for a person, ain't you? 'Usband, eh?"

An elderly man at my right hand removed his pipe and grinned. The gentleman opposite to him winked; and a woman in the corner giggled rustily. You might have supposed them to be tickled by a sense of the deeper irony which underlay this mother's sarcasm. But, as a matter of fact, the reflections which moved them were not of this character. The elderly man at my right explained his sentiments publicly. "Puts me in mind," he said, "of my fust. 'E were jest sich a skinny one."

And Rickets spoke again. "Why can't you stop the beggar's noise?" he demanded. "Worse nor a waggon-load o' tomcats, that row is."

"What," demanded the girl, "d'you expect me to do? Put a muzzle on 'im? Why don't you take an' stop 'im yeself? 'Andy enough wiv yere tongue, you are. S'pose you show us 'ow to do the business."

"My way o' stoppin' 'im would be easy," said the boy, with a stupid grin. "I should lay a strap acrost 'is back."

His companion reapplied the elbow treatment. "You do!" she squeaked between the digs. "You do, you little ape. Let me see you. On'y let me see you. There'd be a strap 'crost your back blessed soon. Not 'arf, there wouldn't. You baboon, you!"

The girl looked helplessly at nothing, "hushing" the baby upon her breast by means of sudden, horrible, little jerks. Such a pitiful parody of rock-a-bye. She was too young and pale properly to know or understand the business of mothering, which is a difficult business to learn in your spare time, especially when they shut you out for a "quarter" if you are two minutes late at the factory. So that this London mother sucked at a bull's-eye, and yawned, and jerked, while the London baby lay in her arms and moaned.... "I fink it is the beetroot," reiterated the mother presently. "He looks so cold, Sam."

"It's wind," pronounced the boy, bringing forth a mouth-organ and carefully wiping it upon his sleeve. "Give 'im a tap, same's I told you. 'Seaweed,' mates." With which announcement the husband and father proceeded to wring out the melody of that name. We all tapped time with our feet, and the mother sucked her bull's-eye, and the baby moaned.

"He looks so cold," repeated the mother, as the mouth-organ subsided. "Give us 'Cock o' the North,' Sam."

Sam obeyed this summons with alacrity.

"If you will pardon me, young woman," observed the elderly man at my right hand, having duly applauded the soloist—"if you will pardon me, young woman, I will take the liberty of recommending a cold key. It catches the breath, if you take my meanin'. See?"

"No; I don't see," responded the mother sharply. It resented the preferment of counsel. This reflected upon its competence: this offended its sense of dignity. It was a married woman.

The husband readdressed himself to his mouth-organ. But as he put that instrument of melody unto his lips, the girl reached sharply forth and stayed him.

"E—'e seems to be a-chokin', Sam," she said. "I think—I b'lieve—I—what you grinnin' for, you ugly ape? When'll we get to Bow? 'Ow many stations? You old 'im, Sam: I b'lieve—I—he looks so cold. He looks so cold."

"Give 'im another bull's-eye," suggested Sam. "There's peppermint in bull's-eyes. Next station's Bow. What are you grizzlin' for?"

"'E—'e looks so cold," explained the wife. There was a flame in her eye. A new flame—a flame of fear and joy. It was as though a match had been put to her soul. She was learning the business.

The woman in the corner left off giggling. She spoke to the mother. "You run along to bed with 'im, my gel. Never you mind about 'is looks. Run along to bed with 'im, so's 'e can be warm."

And the girl tightened her hold upon the parcels rack; and swayed her body gently, like a real mother. The boy, her husband, drew forth a series of discords from the mouth-organ. But she did not scream at him as before. She stood there, dumbly, rocking her baby like a real mother.

And the baby did not moan. The baby lay there on her bosom, silent and strangely still.

Then, with a jerk, our train pulled up. And the girl let go of the rack-rail and stumbled out. "Come on, Sam," she said, "we gotter 'urry. 'E looks so cold."

"Wait till I light me fag, then," said the boy. He struck a match on his boot-heel, and followed her, whistling cheerfully.

* * * * *

Our train moved on. And the elderly man at my right hand imparted a secret to me.

"That's their fust," he said.

I nodded, patiently.

"'E lay quiet enough when the music started. Did you notice?"

"Yes," I said, "I noticed."

"They're funny devils," said the man.

XV

INGRATES

"DR. BRINK. Important.

"DEAR DOCTOR,—Ther is a lady keeps on coming in a motor car, and her names is Mrs. Dudenay-Jones, and she is always at our place, and we think she 'as got a good intention, but my husband says he has had enough, and he thinks if we was to speak to you then perhaps you was to speak to her so perhaps she would stop it. She is a real lady, and always civil and polite, but my husband says we've had ennough. His mates has got to hear about it, and they call him Gordon Bennett, and he is a hardworking man.

"It is my daughter Kate she takes the interest in, the same what you give the light-brown mixture to for loosing her appetite. She wants to put her in a home at Margate, but my daughter has got a good home of her own, and she do not want to be beholding. And if a person goes to Margate you always bring back vermin, and there is enough work to keep a decent home without anybody need go to Margate and bring back vermin. And further and more, my Kate 'as got a bank book of her own, thank God, and when she wants to take a fortnight she can do it independent, and her young fellar the same, him what has the bottles of red from you for spots on the face.

"And so it is kindly to be hoped as you will kindly talk about it to the lady, you being reguly engaged by us for all these year, and knowing well that we are hardworking and independent, and not the kind as would wish to be beholding. And she come 4 times a week from Sat., and now it is only Tue., and she has been twice. It is no wonder as my daughter loose her appetite.

"And thanking with compts, "Your faithl, "SARAH BENNET, 13, Markham Street, over against the Dairy.

"P.S.—Boy got 6d. Please send a bot. light brown for my daughter. Did my daughter ought to drink a wineglass full of vineger? They tell me it is good.

"The lady has always acted civil, so I hope you'll be the same.

"S. BENNETT."

* * * * *

It was this missive, reaching the doctor at his breakfast table, which caused a beautiful philanthropist to enter his surgery at tea-time. She came in immediate response to the doctor's invitation; she came with a rush, having been carried hither by her 80-h.p. 8-cylinder light touring car.

"And, oh, dear Dr. Brink," she said, "how simply charming it is to meet you! One has so often read your bright little speeches about this shocking poverty. One simply yearns to do something. How one envies you your strength, your power, your splendid opportunities. How you must revel in your work here, Doctor! It must be simply charming!"

"About as charming," said the doctor, "as keeping pigs and sleeping with them."

The beautiful philanthropist broke into appreciative titters. "Pigs, Doctor!" she cried, with the archest look. "Pigs! He! he! And you call yourself a Socialist! Of course, I'm not a Socialist myself. One's husband cannot be expected to approve of such extremes as that. But one need not be a Socialist in order to feel sorry for them. Now, need one, Doctor? But when one is a woman, it is all so difficult. Oh, Doctor, can one do nothing?"

"One can," replied the doctor; "but one won't. That, madame, is the difficulty."

"I don't quite understand you," said the lady.

"You ask me," explained the doctor, "whether one can do nothing. I reply that one can: that this is all we ask of one—to do nothing."

"To do nothing? D-o-c-t-o-r!"

"It does sound revolutionary, perhaps," admitted the doctor. "But it is really true. We ask one to do nothing. We ask one to be so kind as to sit at home and draw threads out of teacloths. And to draw cheques. But not to leave one's blameless hearth. We ask one to keep away. The pig-stye is a dirty pig-stye, and it's got to be cleaned by dirty people. Nice people—manicured people—-are best out of it. See?"

"I see that you want to be rude," said the lady, "but I don't—— What is it all about, Doctor?"

"This," said Dr. Brink. And he gave her Mrs. Bennett's letter. And she read it silently. And she stood up.

"Really, Doctor," she observed, "one doesn't quite know what to say. I'm sorry, I suppose. I will write and apologise to Mrs. Bennett. I'll go home and draw threads.

"Don't trouble to get up," she continued, as the doctor rose from his chair. "Don't trouble to get up. You are quite the rudest man I've ever met. Please don't trouble to get up."

She reached the door, but paused upon its threshold and turned to him again. "You are quite the rudest man I've ever met," she said again. "Quite the rudest.... I'll send you some money for your pigs."

XVI

BAFFIN'S FIND

Baffin came home one evening in a state of wild-eyed exaltation.

He had found the face for his "Mist Maiden." Its name was Prudence Croft.

It was coming to sit next day, and certain brothers of the brush were coming also to inspect and criticise Prudence.

Baffin's panegyrics quite interested me. I invited myself to join the party and my invitation was accepted.

So that I first saw Prudence under romantic circumstances. She was sitting on a sugar-box with her bodice off. The combination of her charms and a red flannel under-garment was startling to the eye.

Prudence was occupied, it seemed, in a proceeding called "sitting for the neck and shoulders." The process was not a restful one, for Prudence had "nerves" and "fidgets" and a constant flow of anecdote. Mr. Baffin made free with expressions of entreaty, disapprobation, and despair.

For myself, I sat and stared at Prudence, being consumed with a great wonder. It wasn't the flannel which provoked this wonder. Red flannel is a hideous material, and highly moral and depressing at that. And I am sure that the spectacle of a poor, anæmic rat of an artist's model seated in "half-costume" on a sugar-box is not (in itself) an attractive one. But Prudence fascinated me as no human being had fascinated me for many days.

If any of you have felt the poignant, horrible appeal of Ophelia during the "mad scene," you will know how I felt about Prudence. Her spare, consumptive body was crowned by a neck and face and head as beautiful as any that ever were. But it was a beauty that was monstrous in its perfection, and that, therefore, hurt like some monstrosity of ugliness.

Prudence's beauty was the beauty of imbecility—that which Rossetti loved so much to draw. To look at her for long was like looking at some exotic, over-nurtured lily in a hot-house: one felt sick and restless and unmanned, and fell to longing for some robuster blossom on a hedgerow.

She had the genuine Rossetti neck—a thing which rose and swelled and died away in exquisite, maddening curves. She had the genuine Rossetti nose—straight, and small, and delicate, and sinful. She had hair, a full arm's length, that crept and clung and strayed and floated like the tendrils of a vine. She had wide, inscrutable eyes: wondering as a child's, yet filled with an awful something that was not of childhood. She had, above all else, a mouth which stung you with its beauty—blood-red lips that were open and moist and eager, like a lover's wound.

To all these charms she added the mind and speech of a mud-lark: the intelligence of a backward infant.

"Ow, Mr. Baffin," she was saying when I saw her first, "ow, Mr. Baffin, you do frighten me when you swear so. I will keep still: I will, reely. I won't fidget or move or talk—I won't even breathe—for a 'ole ten minnits. On'y I must tell you about me an' my sister an' the penny-in-the-slot machine. Mother give us tuppence, see, 'cos it was washin' day, an'—— ... Ow, now you're angry, Mr. Baffin. Down't be angry, Mr. Baffin. I am a wicked girl, I know I am, an' I will keep still: an' Gawd knows what's to become of me when my mother dies, an' everybody 'ates me, an' I am un'eppy."

The remainder of Prudence's observations were mingled with the sound of noisy sobs.

Mr. Baffin, that eminent painter, put down his palette and brush. "I'll wait," he said, "until you are dry again."

"Down't be engry with me, Mr. Baffin," moaned Prudence. "I'll be a good gel now—I will, reely—if on'y yew wown't be engry with me."

"Very well, then," answered Baffin. "You can begin to be a good girl now. I 'm not angry with you any more, and if only you keep still for five little minutes while I get in the curves of the chin, I'll let you talk and wriggle as much as you like for a whole ten minutes. Now hold your head up."

So Prudence ceased her lamentations, and held her head up—for five-and-thirty seconds. At the end of that period an interesting thought occurred to her.

"It'll be Christmas in four months," she observed, wriggling delightedly. "I'm gownter give my muvver something sow nice fur Christmas' I'm gownter give 'er a—— Ow, Mr. Baffin, you're angry with me agen. I am a bad gel, I know I am; but——"

"You can leave off helping me for a minute or two," said Baffin quietly. "I've got to do some scraping here, so you can have the wriggle now. What is this about Christmas?"

"I got two guineas comin' to me fur Christmas—per'aps. I sat to Mr. Baker fur 'is 'Birth of Wonder,' an' when 'e sells it 'e is gointer gimme two guineas!"

Baffin looked at me, and I nodded in appreciation of his glance. Everybody knows, of course, that Mr. Wilberforce Baker, the eminent Academician, disposed of his "Birth of Wonder" last June. It was his tenth annual contribution to that remarkable collection of pictures now being formed under a bequest of the late Mr. Bantry—Mr. Wilberforce Baker himself being a trustee of the fund bequeathed for that purpose. Baffin excommunicated that distinguished artist in dumb show.

"I shouldn't count on the two guineas," was all he said to Prudence. "... How long is it since you sat for Mr. Baker?"

"Ow, ever so lung!" answered Prudence. "Down't know why 'tis, I'm sure, on'y I down't seem to be able to get now sittin's now'ow. They all say I'm pretty an' that; an' they all rave about me neck: an' they all tell me to call agen; but nothink ever comes of it. Can't make it out at all, I can't?"

"You are lacking in the quality of perception, my dear," explained Baffin.

"Beg your pardon?" queried Prudence.

"I say," repeated Baffin, "that you are lacking—that you are damned slow at seeing things!"

"Ow, Mr. Baffin, you are a naughty man. Fancy usin' such wicked words. My mother says it is on'y bad people what uses words like that. My mother cut 'er finger yesterday, makin' toast. We got the drains up in our 'ouse. Ugly things, them little kittens, ain't they? I 'ates 'em when they're crawly, like those."

Prudence, making a wry face, pointed to a basket beside the sugar-box. This contained a family of illegitimate kittens which James had adopted out of Christian charity.

"I 'ate cats," continued Prudence in her childish, sing-song voice. "I ate all animals. I like goin' to the theayter, though. I like goin' to church too. I like——"

She would have provided us, doubtless, with an exhaustive list of her enthusiasms; but the door of the studio opened, and gave entrance to those brothers of the brush whose coming was expected.

They looked upon Prudence, and were staggered.

"Where in Hell did you find her?" they inquired of Baffin, and discharged a volley of most wonderful expletives in evidence of their surprise and appreciation and envy. And they hanked her off the sugar-box, and turned her this way and that way, inspecting her "form" in much the same manner as that adopted by farmers when buying horseflesh.

"Chin up, please; more to the right. Now to the left. Ah! Get over there, under that top light. Profile, please. Ah! How about shoulders: salt-cellars, I expect; they always have. Pull that thing down. Ah! Not so bad as I feared. No good for the figure, but—but that neck! Trust old Baffin to find 'em, eh, John?"

There was to me something inexplicably delightful in the utter sexlessness of this admiration. To say the least, it was ungallant and sane. And Prudence evidently shared this feeling. The childish vanity in her eyes was unmistakable, and she walked back to her throne on the sugar-box with a strut that real queens might have envied.

Baffin tried to resume work on the picture; but Prudence's gifts of anecdote were as yet unexhausted, and she found it necessary to tell what Mr. Wilberforce Baker had said to Mr. Jerningham Jukes, and what Mr. J. J. had said to Mr. W. B., and what she had said to both of them, and what her mother had suffered under chloroform. And she giggled, and she wriggled, and she apologised, and she wept, and she wriggled and she giggled again. And Comrade of Brush No. 1 observed to Comrade of Brush No. 2 that this sort of thing would not be good enough at any price. Comrade No. 2 sniffed assentingly. "And what the blazes," he inquired, "does she want to wear that beastly flannel for?"

"Ah!" grunted No. 1. "I say, Baffin, why does she wear red flannel? Makes chaps sick."

Baffin referred the matter to headquarters. "What do you dress yourself up like a sore throat for, Prudence?" he inquired. "Why do you wear red flannel?"

Prudence's eyes were wide with amazement. "Ow, Mr. Baffin," she tittered, "yew are a funny men! ... I got pretty things at 'owm. But what's the good o' wearin' 'em out in the studios?"

"You are lacking, my dear girl, in the quality of perception." Baffin uttered these words with an oracular air.

The Comrades made their adieux. "Not if she paid me to paint her," whispered No. 1, with a jerk of the head towards Prudence. "But, Lord, what a profile! A tricky man could work wonders with that head."

"Pity she spoils herself," added Comrade No. 2. And they departed.

"Hear what those gentlemen said?" demanded Baffin, as the door closed.... "You are too talkative, and you giggle too much, and you wriggle too much. And you should leave off red flannel, and make yourself nice. You could make a lot of money if you took care of yourself. Think of the nice things you could give your mother then!"

"My mother's got a abscess," moaned Prudence, "an' I believe she'll die, an' then I'll starve, 'cause I'm a good-for-nothin' gel, an' I wown't sit still, an'—an' me figure's too flat. But I'm learnin' to croshy, an' I will be better. Shall I come termorrer, Mr. Baffin?"

"Come on Friday," answered Baffin. "And," he added, "come in a nice, unwrigglesome frame of mind. You shall have cream and tea and muffins if you are a good girl."

"Ooer!" cried Prudence. "I like muffins. And I like cream, and I like claret... 'Ere"—her face suddenly grew grave, grave as a child's at play with toys—"'ere, Mr. Baffin, do you believe in auctioneers?"

"Do I believe in what?" shouted Baffin.

"Auctioneers," repeated Prudence, with a pout. "Don't be angry with me; I won't ask agen, if you don't like.

"On'y ... what you want to look at me so queer for? I can't 'elp bein' silly. I am silly. On'y ... I wonder if a auctioneer is the sort of man that anybody ought to trust?"

XVII

MR. WEST'S WIFE

"Is this the young man?" said Mrs. West, of Mulberry Street, sitting up in bed and shading a very white face with a very hot hand. "Oh, I daresay 'e'll do! 'Tain't much, I'm told. No doubt 'e'll manage it."

That task which Mrs. West, of Mulberry Street, thus coldly confided to my management was the witnessing of her will. Dr. Brink had volunteered to execute this document for her; and a sniggering youth had haled me from the snugness of the doctor's waiting chariot to come upstairs and sign.

After my formal presentation to Mrs. West, there was an interval of silence, broken only by the scratchy-scratchy of the doctor's pen, as he hastily constructed a form of bequest.

I employed this interval in taking stock of the testator's estate, the whole of which was contained within her room. There were two bedsteads, one (a little folding thing) being devoted to the uses of the sniggering boy who, be it stated, figured in the document which was now being prepared as sole legatee. The other bedstead—that on which the patient lay—was obviously a veteran bedstead which had seen much of the world. It was a circumstantial, ponderous bedstead, and wore still a pompous air, although its ironwork was rusted and its lacquered parts had quite lost their complexion. This bedstead also bore a superstructure designed to carry a canopy; but all that hung there now were certain moth-eaten petticoats. There was a chest of drawers among the assets, and a cork model of the Tower of London, and a wash-basin and two soap dishes, and two dumb clocks and the mechanism of another, and a work of art designed in multi-coloured wools, and having reference to the parable of the fig tree.

"Make it all over to 'im," said Mrs. West; "all what I, the undersigned, may die possessed of. I won't 'ave 'is stuck-up sister touch a stick of it. 'E's bin a good boy to me, Bert 'as. It'll be a 'ome for 'im.

"It's bin a near touch for me, what, Doctor?" pursued the testator.

"Pooh!" murmured the doctor, still writing rapidly, "you're not going this time."

"I know that," said the woman. "Not as I take any notice what you say—you an' your soft soap. But I know in meself as it's all right this time. On'y you never know what's gointer 'appen with the next attack, do you, now? And it'll be a 'ome for the boy. 'E's gettin' good money at the dye works now. 'E'll be all right if 'e's got a 'ome. You ain't puttin' it so's she can touch a share, I 'ope, Doctor?"

"Who's she?"

"'Er what I spoke about—what calls 'erself my daughter. 'Er what's married into the perlice. 'Er what's ashamed of 'er own father!"

"I am putting it," explained the doctor, "so that you leave all of which you may die possessed to your son Albert. It's quite definite. You may sign now. This gentleman and myself will witness your signature."

"Lift me up, then," said Mrs. West.

She signed her name in a shaky but accomplished hand. "Be careful, young man," she admonished me, when my turn arrived.

All the formalities being concluded, Mrs. West sank back upon her pillow with a grunt of contentment. "It'll be a 'ome for the boy," she said. "And if 'is father should turn up——"

"Has he got a father, then?" questioned the doctor, rather, I think, with the object of displaying an intelligent interest than from any genuine curiosity. You are apt to lose your genuine curiosity when this sort of confidence is thrust upon you ten times daily.

"Got a father!" echoed Mrs. West, with evident amazement at the doctor's ignorance. "Ain't you 'eard, then?"

"Heard what?" demanded Dr. Brink.

"About my 'usband. The Midland Malt Comp'ny, you know!'

"Well, really now," replied the doctor, looking painfully confused, "upon my word, I don't know."

"You must go about your business in a very funny way, then," reflected Mrs. West. "It's bin the talk o' Limus. 'E done 'em in for eight 'undred quid—'im an' another man."

"Done 'em in!" repeated the doctor. "Who? What?"

"The Midland Malt Company, same's I told you," expounded Mrs. West. "'E was night watchman, Mr. West was—'im an' another man—an' they took eight 'undred quid. 'E got away with 'arf of it, too. The perlice 'as bin investigatin' ever since."

Dr. Brink still looked a little puzzled. "You mean, in fact—do I understand that your husband stole eight hundred pounds?"

"Mr. West an' another man—yes," responded the woman, quite without feeling. "'Im an' 'is mate, they done in eight 'undred. On'y 'is mate, I'm sorry to say, 'e never got 'is share. The perlice got that. They got 'im, too. But they never got Mr. West."

"How did he escape?" demanded the doctor. And I held my breath. I wondered that the desperado's wife could talk so quietly. "How did he escape?" asked the doctor again.

"Mr. West?" queried the woman. "Oh," she said, with great simplicity, "'e went away.

"It was like this yere," said Mr. West's wife:—

"I was asleep, you see—in this bed yere, an' it was dark—all in the middle o' the night, you see. An' he struck a match an' he woke me up.

"'What's that?' I says, with a start like, an' when I see it was Mr. West I lay down again.

"'Ann,' 'e says, 'wake up. I've got some money 'ere,' 'e says. An' 'e lights a bit o' candle, an' I sits up, an' there on the table—that very table—there was a 'eap o' sovereigns what 'e'd rolled out of a sack. 'I've took these from the company. I'm goin' away,' says Mr. West.

"An' 'e gets into 'is Sunday shoot an' 'e shaves 'isself. An' 'e puts a lot o' the money more'n four 'undred pounds—into a little brown bag, an' 'e puts the rest in the coal cupboard. 'The perlice 'll come for that in the mornin',' says Mr. West. 'Let 'em find it there. An' you,' 'e says, 'you don't know nothink.'

"'An' what about you?' I says.

"'I'm goin' away,' says Mr. West. 'I'll write you when it's safe. Give my love to Rosa.'

"Rosa is my sister's niece, what 'e'd always carried on with—innocent like, in a jokin' sort o' way, if you understand me.

"'An' remember,' says Mr. West to me again, 'as you don't know a thing. They'll find the money in the coal 'ole, so don't you try to stop 'em.'

"An' then Mr. West, 'e kissed me same as usual, an' 'e blowed out the light. An' 'e went away."

* * * * *

"I suppose that the police turned up all right?" suggested Dr. Brink, when he had duly considered this simple story.

"The perlice," responded the woman, who had talked more than was good for her, and now looked paler, if possible, than before—"the perlice was very rude an' rough to me. They found the money in the coal cupboard, an' they took it away. But that didn't satisfy them. It on'y seemed to aggerivate them. An' night after night they come round 'ere, an' they was very rough to me. But they ain't got 'old o' Mr. West.

"'E's bin gone a year now, all but five weeks. An' they ain't caught 'im, an' they never will. I believe it would please that daughter o' mine—the wicked, vain, unfeelin' thing—if they was to catch 'm.

"Mr. West, 'e 'aven't wrote me, nor I don't suppose 'e will. Mr. West is a careful sort. I did send round the other day to a place where I thought there might be noos o' 'im; but there wasn't no noos o' 'im.

"Not that I worry meself about 'im, if you understand. Mr. West would be all right, wherever it was. 'E's the sort that kin take care o' 'isself, 'e is. It's the boy—young Bert—I'm thinkin' of. Mr. West would be very cut up, 'e would, to think as Bert should come to any 'arm."

This reference to the nice paternal feeling of Mr. West affected us both strangely.

"But," continued Mrs. West, "I'm leavin' 'im the 'ome, at all events. Bert can't come to no pertickler 'arm so long's 'e's got a home.

"Mr. West 'isself was always a rare one for 'ome. The boy takes arter 'im."

XVIII

THREE DIALOGUES

The Mission of the Healer is a fine and a noble one, and I have often confided this original thought to my friend Doctor Brink, who declares that such confidences are helpful to him. And I now desire to record, without comment, three dialogues which drifted in to me at intervals one Sunday, when I was sitting on the doctor's gas-stove.

I.—MORNING

VISITOR: And 'e's ser fretful, Doctor, and 'is breathin's ser sick, and 'e don't appear to 'ave no appetite.

DOCTOR: Bring him to the light here. I just want—ah!

VISITOR: I give 'im a soothin' powder, too, last night—a large one. I bought it at the chimmis. They're supposed to be very good, them Parker's soothin' powders.

DOCTOR: I'm afraid that this is rather serious.

VISITOR: Down't you think they're very good, Doctor—them Parker's soothin' powders?

DOCTOR: I'm afraid there's not much doubt that this child has got diphtheria.

VISITOR: I bin very careful with 'im, Doctor. I give 'im a soothin' powder.

DOCTOR: Where do you live?

VISITOR: Fourteen Mulberry Street. It's next to the oil shop.

DOCTOR: How many rooms?

VISITOR: Was you gointer send 'im away then, Doctor? Oh, down't send 'im away?

DOCTOR: How many rooms?

VISITOR: Down't send 'im away, Doctor!

DOCTOR: I haven't said anything about sending him away—so far. Answer my questions like a sensible woman. You want him to get better, don't you?

VISITOR: I down't want you to send 'im away. I kin look arter 'im meself. There's on'y six of us, an' we got three rooms, an the other two boys kin sleep with me mother in the kitchen? Down't send him away!

DOCTOR: I'm very much afraid, Mrs.—ah—Mrs. Cooper, that it doesn't quite rest with me whether the boy is taken away or not. He's got diphtheria, that's certain, and I'm legally compelled to report the case. It is for the Public Health people to decide whether they take the boy or leave him. I think you ought to be glad to let him go. He'll be well looked after.

VISITOR: Down't send 'im away!

DOCTOR: But why not, Mrs. Cooper? You want him to get better, don't you. You can't possibly nurse him yourself. You have the other children to attend to, and the home to take care of, and your husband——

VISITOR: Yus, an' there's me 'usband, too. 'E won't let you take 'im.

DOCTOR (very patiently): I've said before that I don't want to take him. It is the health officers who will take him if he's taken at all. My duty is done when I've reported the case.

VISITOR: What you wanter tell 'em for? What you wanter put the little chap away for?

DOCTOR: I'm telling them because I shall be punished if I don't. But I think it's very foolish and ungrateful of you to make this fuss. I only want to do the best I can for you and your baby. You want him to get better, don't you?

VISITOR: Down't send 'im away! Let me send me 'usband round to talk to you. Never mind about the punishment an' that, Doctor. My 'usband won't tell nobody. I'd like you to talk to me 'usband, Doctor.

DOCTOR: And I would rather like to talk to your husband. I can explain things more clearly to him, perhaps. Send him round at once.

VISITOR: Very likely it ain't the diftheria at all, Doctor. I'm sure me 'usband won't 'ave 'im took away.

II.—MIDDAY

DOCTOR: And what can I do for you?

VISITOR: I come round yere to talk about the boy Cooper. I'm 'is father. The child ain't to be took away, see? 'E ain't got diftheria at all.

DOCTOR: I'm sorry to have to differ from your diagnosis, Mr. Cooper, but the child has got diphtheria. And I'm very much afraid that he's got to be taken away. It doesn't rest with me; I merely have to report——

VISITOR: If you wanter know the troof, Doctor, we've called in Doctor Popham. See? And Doctor Popham don't believe as the boy 'ave got diftheria at all. And 'e's sent the boy some physic. And 'e's gointer 'ave another look at 'im termorrer. And we've took the case outer your 'ands, see? So you needn't trouble to send in no reports to nobody. That child ain't bein' took away. You needn't trouble to interfere no more. The boy is stoppin' 'ome, along of 'is lawful parents. See?

DOCTOR: Did Doctor Popham examine the child's throat?

VISITOR: What's that gotter do with you? The boy ain't got diftheria. And 'e ain't gotter be moved.

DOCTOR: It has got this much to do with me—that I did examine the child's throat. I'm not suggesting to you that I think he has diphtheria; I'm telling you that he jolly well has got it. I know. When you go home you can see for yourself. Look in the little chap's throat and you will see a round white patch about the size of a sixpence. That, my friend, is diphtheria.

VISITOR: The boy ain't gotter be moved.

DOCTOR: That's not my business. Somebody else will decide about that. But I don't suppose he'll let you murder the child, even if you are its father.

VISITOR: 'E's my child, ain't 'e? And 'e's in my 'ouse. Nobody ain't gointer take my child away without I tells 'em to. See?

DOCTOR: It isn't only this one child we have to consider. What about your two other children? What about all the other children in the house?

VISITOR: Let other people look after their own, same's what I'm willing to do fur my own. A man's got a right to 'is own children and nobody ain't gointer touch no child o' mine without I lets 'em.

DOCTOR: You stand on your rights, do you?

VISITOR: That's it. All the corpuscular 'ealth orficers in England ain't gointer take my lawful child away from me. See?

DOCTOR: I don't know whether it's ever been mentioned to you before, but you are rather by way of being a Social Problem.

VISITOR: It ain't your place to be saucy. I know me rights, and neither you nor any man is going to tell me as it's right to rob a person of their lawful child. And I don't want none of your sneers nor I don't want none of your nicknames. You're out o' this job, see? I've called in Dr. Popham. You and yere Latin nicknames!

DOCTOR: I can put it into English if you like. You're a pudding-headed fool. Good-day.

VISITOR: What about my child? Are you gointer promise to leave 'im alone?

DOCTOR: Of course I am. You can kill your whole family for all I care. I've sent in my report to the authorities, and there's an end of it. Good-day.

VISITOR: You've reported, 'ave ye? Oh, very well, then. We'll see. That boy ain't gotter be shifted. See?

DOCTOR: All right. Get out.

VISITOR: We've called in Dr. Popham, and 'e's weighed you up. See? The boy ain't got diftheria at all. Nor 'e ain't gotter be shifted.

DOCTOR (in simpler terms): May Heaven administer to your requirements. Get out.

III.—EVENING

VISITOR: If you please, Doctor, I come round ere about the boy Cooper. I'm the father, sir. We want you to come round and see 'im. 'E's very bad, sir.

DOCTOR: Made rather fools of yourselves, haven't you?

VISITOR: We ain't give 'im none o' Dr. Popham's medsun, sir; not a drop. We want you to come round, Doctor. 'E's very bad.

DOCTOR: All right. I'll be round in half an hour.

VISITOR: Can't you come round at once, sir? 'E's very bad. 'E don't seem able to swaller, sir, and there's lumps in 'is neck. And the man from the 'ealth orfice ain't ser much as bin near us.

DOCTOR: That's your fault. I told him you were going to make a fuss, and I suppose he's busy and has put it off until to-morrow.

VISITOR: Can't you make 'im come to-night, Doctor? The boy is very bad. And one of the other boys is sneezin', and the other one 'e says there is a funny feelin' in 'is thumb. Can't you come at once, Doctor?

DOCTOR: Wait one minute, then, till I've written these prescriptions.

VISITOR: Go' bless you, Doctor. We ain't ser much as looked at Dr. Popham's physic. We ain't, straight. The boy is very bad. 'Is face 'as gone a very funny colour. 'Ot this evenin', ain't it? Much obliged to you, I'm sure, Doctor. Think you kin put it right? The boy is bad. It's a 'ot evenin'. What they playin' at in the 'ealth orfice, Doctor—leavin' a man's child to die?

XIX

CURING THE CURER

"Yes, Aunt Isobel," said James—"I quite agree with you. The silly old duffer ought certainly to take an anti-something. He's as down-hearted and high-tempered as possible."

"Certainly," quoth Aunt Isobel—a thin and very definite lady, with a wire-woven manner—"something ought to be done. Your father is looking very unwell. I attribute his condition to overwork and undernourishment."

"Nourishment's all right, Aunt Isobel," protested James. "He eats enough to fill an ox."

Aunt Isobel winced and raised an arresting forearm, as if to ward off some physical menace. "You really do employ the most trying phrases, my dear," she said. "Personally, I am a stronger believer in Anti-Nervo. Two tablets, three times a day—one before each meal, and one after. It is really a quite remarkable remedy. Poverty of blood is one of a great number of complaints for which the makers themselves especially recommend it. Poverty of blood is, of course, your father's chief trouble. He is much under-nourished."

"You ought to see him walk into a steak," said James.

"If," pursued Aunt Isobel, "he really does receive a proper quantity of food, then I'm inclined to fear that it is food of poor quality. If, indeed, both the quality and quantity of his food should prove to be adequate, I can only suppose that he is suffering from insufficient sleep. Or is it brain fag? It might, of course, be liver or weak heart. Or some secret trouble, perhaps. Anti-Nervo is strongly recommended for all these complaints. He must certainly be made to take some Anti-Nervo."

"He must certainly be made to do something violent," admitted James. "He's certainly got hold of a most phenomenal hump."

Aunt Isobel was again forced to push off imaginary assailants. "Where did you learn, my dear," she inquired, in a poignant sort of tone, "to use such fearfully emancipated expressions? Another remedy in which I have the greatest possible faith is Sal-Toxine. Do you know Sal-Toxine? But, of course, you don't; it is quite a novel remedy. I myself have only—why, here is your dear father."

And here, indeed, that gentleman was; wearing the gloomiest possible air, and a very dirty collar. He blundered heavily through the door, and cast himself heavily upon a chair. Having disembarrassed himself of a hat and a stethoscope, he delivered an original and entertaining monologue.

"May my bones burn in hell," he said, "if I conduct this profitable enterprise for another damned minute. I've got the largest and dirtiest and sickest collection of common drunks in London. I've got all the Phthisics from here to Limehouse. Every pre-ordained son of a witch of a bricklayer within hail of the parish has broken his bandy leg, and called me in to set it. Every single woman that ever worked in a jam factory is 'expecting' to-morrow, and there isn't a pint of milk or a handful of coal between six of 'em. I haven't slept a wink since yesterday morning, or sat down since last night. I haven't had a wash since Monday, or a drink since last April. I'm fed up."

This speech was listened to by James with polite attention, but perfect calm. Aunt Isobel, upon the other hand, was unable to suppress a loudish shudder.

"Hullo!" cried Dr. Brink, with evident surprise. "Here's Isobel. How are you, Isobel? Hear you've changed parsons again. What a rabid young flirt you are."

"We have been discussing the subject of your deplorable poverty of health," responded the flirt. "We have decided that you must be made to take a tonic—Anti-Nervo, say, or Sal-Toxine. We have the very greatest faith in them, especially Anti-Nervo. You take two tablets, three times daily: one before and one after each meal."

"Can't I have one in my bath, as well?" asked Doctor Brink.

"The directions," responded Aunt Isobel, "are very explicit. Two tablets three times daily—one before and one after each meal. It is a wonderful remedy. My own doctor at Chiswick—a really clever man—is perfectly charmed with it. He has analysed it several times. He has the most perfectly refined voice that I have ever met with in a man. He takes his profession quite seriously. He is an M.B. of Edinburgh, and a surgeon as well, and they say he is quite the youngest man who has ever attempted the two things at once. He plays the banjo most delightfully."

"Good at cracking nuts, too, isn't he?" suggested the doctor in a tired voice.

"Of course," continued Aunt Isobel, "we don't want to insist upon Anti-Nervo if there is any other genuine tonic in which you have more faith. I know many extremely intelligent people who simply swear by Sal-Toxine; and then, of course, there is Pherantidote. I have heard that Our Queen uses that. What is your opinion of Pherantidote?"

"Well," responded Doctor Brink, "it's a dam small bottle for one-and-eight. Do you really think I'm seedy, Isobel?"

"We are both agreed that you require——"

"What I require, old girl," said Doctor Brink, rising slowly to his feet, "is a job in the City. I want to try a new system of exploitation. My game's too deadly simple: I'm tired of pumping aniline dye and water into hungry bellies for a thousand a year. I'm tired of the filthy working-man—tired of seeing him so close. He smells of beer, and his hands are so cold. His eyes are awful, and they give me nightmares.... I want to kill the cad more profitably. I want to start a trouser-button works, or some chutney mills, or something. I can't stand it any longer—this deadly boredom: this watching the dumb beast die."

"Well," said Aunt Isobel, "I can seriously recommend you to pin your faith to Anti-Nervo. You take two tablets three times daily."

XX

MILK

I have long been interested in Mr. Binney. He is the only milkman I have ever seen who looks any different from other milkmen. His very voice is different; for, whereas other milkmen are sudden and shrill of utterance, Mr. Binney has cultivated a profounder, more scholarly method, and he has a voice of deep bass quality.

I have sat at an upper window of the Bovingdon Street dispensary and watched this tradesman closely when he has been conducting milkcans to the houses opposite. I have observed his slow, deliberate tread, so thoroughly in keeping with the fulness of his girth and stature. I have noted his extensive face, so plain and wise and red. I have remarked his drooping eyelid and crimson neck, his scant white locks, and row upon row of chins—features insignificant in themselves, but, when combined, imparting to his countenance a strangely judicial character.

This effect of power (such is the individuality of the man) receives additional strength even from the trivial business of his calling. Mr. Binney, when handing a milkcan through some parlour window, looks less like a milkman than any other imaginable human thing. He handles the pewter vessel gingerly, daintily, as if it were a precious casket, and a sort of trembling eagerness is sometimes to be observed in his demeanour.

There is nothing commercial in Mr. Binney's manner.

He does not seem to sell his milk. He bestows it.

To see him gingerly proffering his battered cans is to see, as it were, an earthly Providence—a conscious benefactor, distributing Nature's bounty to her helpless children.

He accepts the copper tokens which reward his ministrations with an air of gracious calm as far removed from any taint of barter as are his actions. You might suppose him to be a priest receiving offertory.

The same spirit of gentleness distinguishes his method of proclamation. Mr. Binney does not use the cry of "Milk-ho!" which his fellow-milkmen favour. I have already stated that the tone of his voice is deeper and more profound than that which they employ. Pushing his little handcart before him, he causes his utterance to correspond with his gait—which is majestic.

"Milk! milk! milk!" he exclaims—or, rather, utters—in a tone which is at once appealing and authoritative.

Mr. Binney so interested me that I reported him to the doctor. "What is the mystery of this unusual milkman?" I said. But the doctor only smiled.

A day or two afterwards, however, when I was seated in anxious expectancy at the upper window, Doctor Brink came up and brought me my answer. "Waiting for your milkman?" he said.... "Ha! I've just been sent for to him. Come round with me now and see him in his little home.... I shall want some help."

As we walked along, the doctor carried his explanation a little further. "We shall have to take his clothes off," he observed. "If once we can get him undressed he's fixed for a week, because he cannot hold things steady, and he's fat, and his trousers are tight, and—oh, here we are."

A perfectly quiet and collected old lady received us on the doorstep. "He's cut 'isself this time," she announced; "fell agin the railings by the church. But he's very jolly and 'igh-sperited, Doctor, and I'm sure the sewing won't be any trouble to you. Is this your assistant?"

The doctor nodded. "Where is he?" he demanded.

"In 'is own old armchair," replied the woman. "Per'aps you'll get 'is clothes off, Doctor. It's on'y the trousers that matter. They'll puzzle 'im till Sunday this time, they will."

We found Mr. Binney in the situation reported. He received us with cheers and a poetic outburst.

"Dr. Brink,

Full of chink,

I don't think"—

he exclaimed; adding a personal couplet—

"I'm old Binney,

Not so damned skinny."

"Doctor," he continued, "'ave a drink?" Upon the doctor declining this offer, Mr. Binney chuckled loudly and extended—or tried to extend—an arm. "Feel me pulse, old buck," he shouted. "Let's see if you know yere business. If ye can feel old Binney's pulse I'll give you 'arf a dollar, 'cause I'll be damned if ole Binney kin feel it 'isself."

"Loss of feeling, eh?" said the doctor, in his suavest tone. "Ha! you'll feel this all right." With which words he inserted a surgical needle in Mr. Binney's cheek.

"Oy!" cried Mr. Binney, "keep orf the grarse!"

But the doctor continued to ply his busy thread, and Mr. Binney, being temporarily incapable of performing any but the most elementary movements, was constrained to endure this treatment. When the doctor had completed it—Mr. Binney having several times admonished him to "keep orf the grarse!"—and we had removed that garment which exerted such a powerful influence upon the question of Mr. Binney's freedom, that gentleman once more expressed himself in verse, saying—

"Doctor Brink,

Tip 'im the wink,

Give 'im a drink,

I don't think.

Put 'im in clink,

Tiddely-wink,

Tiddely-wink,

Give 'im a drink.

Give 'im a——

Good-bye, old pal, an' come agin termorrer."

We went again upon the morrow, and Binney expressed himself as being glad to see us.

"I dunno 'oo your soft-lookin' friend may be," said Mr. Binney, "but I know 'oo you are, Doctor, an' you done me a power o' good, an' I'm grateful to you. Gettin' on fine, I am."

"That's right," exclaimed the doctor, looking as if he believed it. "Keeping off the drink, of course, as I advised you?"

"Keepin' orf tadpoles!" cried Mr. Binney, with disdain. "I've 'ad five brandies auready this mornin', an' not you, nor the ole woman, nor the King 'isself would stop me. I know the cure for my complaint."

The next morning Dr. Brink paid his third and last visit to this patient. The patient willed it so, having reconstructed the frame of his mind.

"Look 'ere, me man," said Mr. Binney upon this occasion, "I'm grateful for what you done for me, and so on. See? But I've 'ad enough of you. See? I'm very much obliged to you, and all that; but I don't want you. I'm better now. I'm all right now. I don't want no blinkin' doctors. See what I mean? You're a clever fellow, no doubt, and I quite agree, and you 'ave my thanks. But you can 'op it. See?"

Dr. Brink accordingly hopped it. But that his treatment had not been wholly useless was testified by Mrs. Binney, who, when calling in that evening for some more dark brown, announced, with a sigh of satisfaction, that "'is trembles" was as bad as ever. "It'll be another week 'fore ever 'e can put them trousers on," she cried triumphantly.

That was a week ago. This very day has witnessed Mr. Binney's return to public life—properly habited and full of dignity.

I have been watching him, as, with his finest and most benevolent air, he bestowed a can of wholesome, grass-fed nourishment upon one of the numerous Barnstein children, who live opposite.

His hands, I thought, showed signs of more than usual eagerness as he hooked a trembling finger round the handle of the can. There was an expression as of reverence upon his face, and he yielded the liquid into Miss Barnstein's keeping with a hesitancy, as of one loth to part from his treasure.

His lips moved, and I could almost have believed that he had breathed a blessing—a Latin blessing. Then I heard him speak—in deep, impressive tones he spake.

"Be careful with it, missy," he said. "If you spill some, what'll mother say? Now do be careful!"

With that he returned to his little hand-cart and pushed it slowly up the road, walking with a measured gait and uttering, in rich and reverent tones, his exhortation:—

"Milk! Milk! Milk!"

XXI

TWO PATIENTS

My friend, Mrs. Isadore Muntz, has been very ill, poor girl.

She is always rather ill, of course; there would not otherwise be much point in being married to so rich and elderly a man as Isadore. But the illness which I now have to record was a real one—a horrid one. It involved the use of a surgeon's knife. It involved the complete collapse of Isadore, whose world-famous bill-brokery was carried on without the stimulus of his presence for nearly fourteen days.

For more than seven days of that period, it is said, he kept to his chamber, and cried without ceasing. And he admitted, between his sobs, to my aunt Elizabeth, that Sir Marmaduke Wilkins's fee for the operation had amounted to a hundred guineas, besides an additional charge of twenty guineas for the anæsthetist.

But Mrs. Isadore—Constance she used to let me call her—is getting slowly better. Because she used to let me call her Constance and because—because I am sorry for her, I went to the "At Home," which was held at West Hampstead, in order—I suppose—to celebrate the result of Sir Marmaduke Wilkins's efforts.

Less than eight weeks having elapsed since the occasion of Sir Marmaduke's skilful treatment, she was still forbidden to be very active. So she lay on a sofa, embowered with blossoms, and we rustled up and cried over her. Isadore, the faithful creature, stood fast by her right hand. This was perhaps responsible for Constance's notable depression.

It is also possible that she thought of all those low-necked gowns hanging useless on their pegs upstairs.

"You don't mean to say you've come!" Constance exclaimed when I took her hand; "I thought you hated Hampstead."

"And so I do," replied the tactful guest. "But I heard a funny story yesterday, and——"

"That's all right," she said. "I'm sick of funny stories. Tell me something tragic. Haven't you fallen in love lately?"

"Yes," I said, "and I've bought another dog."

"Tell me about the dog," she said.

So I described the dog for nearly twenty minutes, much to the enragement of many mourners, who were waiting for an audience. When the laws of decency compelled me to retreat, she was so kind as to ask me to convey a form of greeting to the new dog.

"I will come and see him one day," she said. "But they won't let me move for weeks yet, and when they do I've got to go to Bournemouth and be wheeled about in a bath-chair. Isn't it horrid?"

"It is," I admitted, and I turned away to meet the cod-fish eye and collected expression of Sir Marmaduke Wilkins, M.R.C.S. That scientist was eating an ice with relish.

* * * * *

You may wonder what connection I trace between this episode and the life of Bovingdon Street. There is a connection; but it traced itself. I left the Muntz's stately mansion feeling in need of distraction, and that distraction I sought from Doctor Brink and James. And James was full of news.

"I've begun my professional education," she said. "I administered chloroform to a case last week. Fee sixpence. Fatty still owes it me."

I turned to Fatty for his explanations.

"Pity me," said that gentleman, "I have a hussy for a daughter. One who makes sport of her poor old father's need. I do owe her the money. I shall continue to owe it. I am entitled to owe it. I only got half-a-crown for the whole thing—anæsthetist's fee included.

"Men like Marmaduke Wilkins get a hundred guineas for the same operation. And then the patient has to pay another ten or twenty for the anæsthetist. When a high-class, if modest surgeon, like myself, consents to perform these things for a wage which would offend the dignity of a dustman, why, damme, it is his duty to swindle the anæsthetist. Why——"

"What was your patient?" I asked.

"The patient? Oh, a girl in Mulberry Street. Works at the pickle factory. Pretty girl, only eighteen. James cried. Rather unprofessional, what? Now she has the cheek to ask for sixpence!"

"What was—er—the result of your high-class surgery? Is the girl alive?"

"Alive! Why, my insulting young friend, she's back again at the pickle works. Went to work on the sixth day. My girls don't die."

"At work again in six days—after—after that! And you let her!"

"Better work than starve," said the doctor brusquely.... "How did you enjoy yourself at Hampstead this afternoon?"

XXII

LOST!

It isn't often that Dr. Brink permits himself to have emotions during business hours, but even the doctor looked astonished when O'Flannigan came into his consulting-room. We called him O'Flannigan, because he did not leave a visiting-card, and we had to call him something. And he spoke with a trace of the Irish accent. He was a very tall man and very stout, having dead-white hair, which he wore in curls, and a very red face. His clothes were all of them black, and they shone in places with a sort of oily lustre. He wore black gloves and a black tie, and he carried a black umbrella.

"Evenin', Doctorrr," said he; "ut's a fine place ye got hearrr!"

The doctor bowed.

"Ut is a fine place," repeated the visitor, tapping the oilcloth with his umbrella point; "but, begad, 'tis a mericle how you kin do ut. Privut inkum purrhaps?"

"Why, yes," acknowledged Dr. Brink, "my income is certainly a private matter."

"The divil ut is!" commented the visitor. "Me own's so damned privut Oi've lost sight of ut this ten yeers past. Midwifery connection is good, Oi onderstand. Ut's a sound, domestic practus, Doctorrr?"

The doctor nodded. Wonder had made him speechless.

"That's good now," ejaculated the visitor, holding tight to the mantelpiece as he fished with his umbrella for a chair. "Give me a sound domestic practus. It's these damned Alcoholics and so forth which Oi deprecate, Doctorrr. They're no use to a man. They nevorrr pay up, they nevorrr git bettorrr, and, be jabers, they nevorrr damned well die. Ye put the takuns at three hunderrrd, Doctorrr? Begad, 'tis a poor inkum. Faith, Oi've known a man do bettorrr cuttin' corns. 'Tis a cash trade, is ut not, Doctorrr?"

"It is," said Dr. Brink. "What can I do for you?"

"Do for me?" echoed the visitor. "Whoi, if tis a drink yure profferin' me, Doctorrr, Oi will name the ush'll. Three hunderrrd, eh? Begad, 'tis a paltry inkum—a damned dirrrty, snivelling sneakin' wasp-waisted inkum for a gentleman to live upon. But 'tis a cash trade, to be shure, and there's no anxiety, to be shure. If they die, why, dammit, they die. You take yure thruppence and they take their chance. A veterinary trade, in fact, Doctorrr. Do ye walk yure rounds, Doctorrr?"

"Cab 'em," snapped out Dr. Brink.

The visitor held on to the mantelpiece with both hands. "Holy Motherrr!" he cried. "A cab is ut, ye say? On three hunderrrd? And Oi been surgeon-majorrr in th' Army! Whoi, begad, Doctorrr, I have known the toimes when half a dozen of us in th' Eightieth could drink yure cab away at a sittin'. Cab did Oi say? Be the grace of Heaven, there was gentlemen with us would dispose of a pair-horse brougham in the same period. Cab? To the divil with cabs. Oi must stump ut. Stump ut on me ten old toes. Meself, moind ye—a retired surgeon-majorrr of her late Majesty's Army. And me over sixty, Doctorrr! It is thus that Britain treats her warriors. Begad, they've even stole me pension from me. When do Oi take overr, Doctorrr?"

"Take over what?"

"Why, dammit, man," began the visitor, but his flush of anger suddenly died down. A look of bewilderment took its place. "Will ye pardon me, Doctorrr," said the visitor slowly, in a voice which sounded husky. "But tell me am Oi roight in assuming that I was privileged to meet ye hearrr lost noight?"

The doctor shook his head.

"Then," cried the visitor, moved this time by an evidently powerful emotion, "then tell me, man, for God's sake, tell me, is this not the practus I bought from ye last noight?"

"You certainly haven't bought this practice," responded Dr. Brink. "It isn't for sale."

"Begad," mused the visitor, slowly rubbing his chin, "begad, Oi might have known as much. It is a fine place ye have hearrr. Ye wouldn't be for sellin' ut. Not be any means. 'Tis a fine place and a fine practus. Indeed you would be foolish to part with ut, Doctorrr. At any rate, for the sum Oi paid ye yesterday. But, begad, Oi never paid ut ye. Indeed I didn't. Was I so drunk then? Oi doubt ut.

"Hearrr am Oi, an honest, Christian man, a professor of the healun art, the noblest art which—— Begad, Oi know Oi paid ut ye. And be jabers, hearrr's—hearrr's the front-door key—yure front-door key—his, Oi should say, Doctorrr, which he gave me when Oi, when Oi——

"For the love of Hiven, Doctorrr, tell me—tell me truly, Doctorrr, where in Satan's name is the dirty little practus which I bought and paid for yesterday?"

XXIII

THE SURVIVOR

Everybody must still remember the sensational explosion at Stoat's cordite factory in Limehouse. It was quite the talk of last year's gooseberry season. I may remind you that one departmental manager, one bookkeeper, one lady typist, and eighteen hands were utterly and instantaneously atomised; that the managing director himself sustained a shock; and that more than seventy operatives had to be removed in ambulances at the company's expense.

It will be remembered that very High Personages sent telegrams of sympathy. A sum of money was publicly subscribed for the relief and burial of the sufferers. The great heart of England was touched, though it did not leave off beating.

But those whose recollection of that horrible, soul-thrilling catastrophe is as keen as mine will remember that, viewed from the broad and enlightened standpoint of news-value, its most important feature was Mr. John Boyle. This honest artisan went up with the gentleman book-keeper and the lady typist and the hands. But unlike them he came down unbroken and almost unhurt, being so fortunate as to alight upon a providential mound of cotton-waste.

Few people will need to be reminded how this clever action was rewarded. A special (D—— M——) collection, amounting to nearly £300, was raised in three weeks and presented to Mr. Boyle in recognition of his courage and ingenuity. Pictures of Mr. Boyle in all varieties of dress, attitude, and employment were published in the journals. I have an especially vivid recollection of one picture, appearing in a Sunday newspaper. The photographer had caught the noteworthy features of Mr. Boyle at a particularly happy moment; and with consummate art he had represented our hero as emerging from a bad fog with a patch on his chest. This study bore the following inscription: "John Boyle at Home: He nurses the baby."

The next stage in Mr. Boyle's development, or (to state it more correctly) in the development of the public attitude towards Mr. Boyle, was his engagement to appear at the Shoreditch Hippodrome in a dramatic entertainment called "The Man Who was Blown Up."

But by the time he had reached this altitude of greatness the fame of Mr. Boyle was already well established; his name had become familiar to the national ear. For months before the day of Mr. Boyle's historic decision to blend his destiny with that of the national drama it had been a common thing to hear men say to other men: "'Ullo, Charlie; been 'avin' one with Boyle?"

This oft-repeated sally, which never failed to provoke laughter, was popularly supposed to embody a charge of alcoholic excess.

In these days, when Mr. Boyle as "The Man Who was Blown Up" has enjoyed three hundred consecutive nights of fame, it is regarded as a silly thing to joke about him. He is now a solemn National fact.

But it was my own particular good fortune to meet Mr. Boyle at a period when the hand of Fame had barely touched him. I made his acquaintance within twenty-four hours after the tremendous moment which had so exalted Mr. Boyle and his fortunes.

Mr. Boyle, having been detained for a brief period at a local infirmary, was anointed with surgical balm and dismissed; when he immediately came round to the sixpenny surgery of Dr. Brink, demanding a certificate of injuries which should enable him to extract some monetary compensation from the coffers of Stoat's Cordite Works, Limited. Mr. Boyle was not then prognostic of the public rewards which awaited him.

Mr. Boyle having stated his business, the doctor became excited and summoned me to leave the hiding-place and join him openly in the consulting-room.

"This chap," he explained, "is John Boyle, who was blown up with other employed objects at the cordite works, and who is still alive. If you are a real journalist you will get 'copy' out of him."

I took Mr. Boyle by the hand and I said to him—

"You have had an awful experience, old chap. My God, you have lived through an awful thing."

Mr. Boyle said: "I believe you, guv'nor. Now this is a funny thing, ain't it. I was 'it on the leg by somethink; and whatever it was, it went right through me trouser but never 'urt the sock. Funny thing, that, ain't it?"

"Quite extraordinary," I admitted. "All the other poor chaps in your shop are dead, aren't they?"

"Twelve chaps and four females; all dead," admitted Mr. Boyle. "Funny thing, wasn't it? Right through me trouser and never touched the sock!"

"Eighty injured from the other shops!" I reflected. "What did you think—how did you feel, when—when you realised it all?"

"I never thought much abaht it," responded Mr. Boyle. "Me leg was 'urtin'."

"It isn't a matter one need encourage him to think about," suggested the doctor.

"I can't 'elp thinking about one thing, though," interpolated Mr. Boyle. "Such a funny thing: Right through——"

"It must have been an awful moment," I hazarded, "when you came to your senses and looked about and saw the—the awfulness of it. What did you do?"

"I don't remember, not clearly," responded Mr. Boyle.... "I know I laughed. It seemed so queer for anything to rip right through a person's trouser-leg and not go near 'is sock."

XXIV

MORE OF PRUDENCE

Prudence and midday post arrived together at Baffin's washhouse on the day appointed for her second stance.

"Oo-er, Mr. Baffin," was her greeting: "I got your letters. Gimme the stamps, wown't you? Me an' my friend we allus c'lect stamps. We ain't gointer stop till we got ten thousand, and then we're gointer make a bonfire when my mother's out. 'Ere, an' I ain't bin 'avin' 'arf a lark with your postman, Mr. Baffin. Oo, an' the conductor on the bus what I come by, 'e wasn't 'arf drunk, I tell you. I was frightened, I was, 'cos my father useder git drunk, an' once 'e bit my mother. 'E was a bad man, my father, an' they made 'im go out an' be a soldier in Egypt, an' 'e got the fever in 'is 'ead, an' we got a picture of 'im at 'ome before 'e was buried, an' you ought to see the funny black man a-settin' alongside of 'im. 'Ere, I'm all in a knot at the back, Mr. Baffin: arst your friend to undo me. An' don't you foget to keep them stamps, an' I spoge it's the chin agen, an' I 'ope you've remembered the muffins!"

"Yes," responded Baffin, "I remembered to get the muffins, and I've also remembered to get an empty flour-sack. Know what that's for?"

Prudence shook her head—gravely, wonderingly.

"To smother up tiresome girls in that will wriggle and will talk," explained Baffin.

"He! he!" giggled Prudence. "Wown't tie up me, I know. 'Cos if you was to do that you couldn't paint me. See?" She gurgled with triumph.

"And now," said Baffin, "it is time to leave off playing. Sit up, like a good girl, and keep quiet. Get rid of that bull's-eye."

"Yes," said Prudence. And the lollipop was "got rid of" of by a simple and effective means. "I should laugh if someone was to tread on it," observed Prudence. "If my mother was to see—— Oo-er, Mr. Baffin, down't 'oller at me, please, Mr. Baffin. I will be good, I will; on'y, if you look like that I shall cry, 'Cos you frighten me."

Silence reigned for a little space, whilst Prudence, with clenched hands, maintained an attitude of strenuous repose. Baffin's actions alternated between brief and seemingly motiveless dabs at his canvas, and a critical inspection of his model, for the purposes of which he spread out his legs and wagged his head—slowly and pensively, from side to side—like an elderly cockerel surveying the domestic landscape. This proceeding terminated in a sigh that had all the eloquence of a shout, and Baffin pounced, as it were, upon his canvas.

Prudence selected this moment in which to throw up both her hands, and wail with sorrow. "Ooh," she moaned, "ooh, I am a bad gel, I am. Ooh, what will my mother say when I go 'ome? She give me a letter to powst, she did, an' I never powsted it, an' it's a letter for our landlord, it is, an' I promised faithful to put it into the first box I come to. An' now I've fogot it, I 'ave, an' my mother 'll be cross. An' I love my mother, I do, an' she's got a bad place on her arm, an' I am a bad, wicked gel to tease an' trouble 'er, I am. Oo-er, I must get up and go out, Mr. Baffin. I must, 'cause I fogot to powst my mother's letter."

Baffin did the philosophic thing: put away his canvas, and put on the kettle, and invited his sitter to unsit and rejoice. That young person responded to this invitation by sitting wonderfully silent—strangely still—for ten minutes. It was only at the very end of this unique performance that we perceived her to be shedding tears. Real tears, this time.

It was possible in that moment to realise that Prudence had passed her twenty-second year. Baffin touched her shoulder, and she shrank from him and shuddered. She spoke, and her voice was the voice of a woman. "Lemme alone: lemme alone. You donnow what a un'eppy gel I am. You—you——"

It finished in a gurgle.

Then, with the laudable motive of clearing the air, Baffin referred in a tone of banter to the still visible presence of red flannel. The success of his experiment amazed us both. All in a moment the whims and capers of infancy possessed her again, and she succumbed to an ecstasy of wriggles.

"Ooh, 'ere, 'ere, Mr. Baffin; 'ere, I say, what do you think some man 'as done? Some man 'as sent me a—a something: a underneath something, all white. Yes, reely!"

"An' my mother says it didn't 'arf cost somethink, neether. But ain't 'e got a cheek to do it? 'Cos it ain't right for a man to send presents like that to a gel when she's grown up: 'cos my mother says it's takin' a liberty. Whoever sent me it, 'e must 'a' been a artist because of the tasty yoke. My mother says as I'm a grown-up gel now, an' I got to be very pertickler.

"Oo, it is pretty, though, I tell you: pink ribbon on the shoulders, an' my mother says 'ooever 'e is 'e oughter be ashamed of 'isself, an' all my gel cousins from Catford are comin' on Sunday to 'ave a look, an' when I find out 'oo it is, my mother says I can tell 'im what I think of 'im."

Stimulated and cheered by the thought of this exciting prospect, Prudence fell upon the muffins. Her appetite, at any rate, was thoroughly grown up, and, having performed a veritable gastronomic feat, she curled herself up on the musty old curtain which carpeted Baffin's "throne" and—went to sleep.

Whereupon, the unauthorised kittens—they crawled everywhere—you found them in the milk jug—promptly employed the skirts of Prudence as a playground.

"Move those kittens away, like a good chap," Baffin called out to me. "They'll worry Prudence when she wakes up. Hates the silly beggars, you know."

But to our surprise, when Prudence did wake up, she stretched forth a foot, and began to tease the plumpest of them with the point of her shoe.

"Funny objec's, ain't they, when they're fat and soft, like this?" said Prudence. "Breakable, ain't they? No strength in their legs. On'y fit to lie on their backs an' be tickled."

And Prudence stooped down, and lifted the plump one into her lap.

"Ooh, my! 'is little pores ain't 'arf soft!" She spoke in the woman's voice that we had heard but once before. "'Is little pores ain't 'arf soft; you could bite 'em."

She kissed a paw.

"Ain't 'e got a funny morsel of a nose. Sich a cheeky nose; such a teeny one. You could bite it. You—you——"

She lifted the absurd little animal to her face, and rubbed her cheek against his cosy side, and she kissed his impertinent nose.

"Oo's a precious, then!" continued Prudence. "Oo's a sleepy precious. My, 'e's a sleepy little 'elpless little lump of fat! Ain't you, boy? What price a see-saw, fat boy?"

She held him so that he hung by his shoulders in an attitude that was not suggestive of dignity. And she dandled and bounced him in a manner with which kittens are not familiar. She lifted him to her face again, and made as if to kiss the nose once more.

But the lips, half bunched for that purpose, parted suddenly, as if with pain—as if with wonder—as if with horror. The kitten slipped from her fingers, and fell with an indignant mew into the soft, warm haven of her lap. And Prudence's hands went up to her startled face, and her hair fell over her like a shroud, and she sobbed as women sob.

"Oh, Gawd!" she cried; "its eyes, its eyes! Its little, winkin' eyes! Oh, mother, mother!"

XXV

A TALK WITH JAMES

I had extinguished the flame of the doctor's gas-stove, and was warming myself on the lid, when James burst in and interrupted me.

"Come off it, like a dear, and listen," said James. "I've had a proposal!"

I wondered, for a moment, whether this flippant manner of stating a serious fact did not call for some form of fatherly rebuke. But all that I actually said was: "Well, I hope you think you've started soon enough."

"Started!" echoed James, regarding me with an air as of dignified amazement. "My dear young man, I started years ago. Why, Baffin was my third; and Baffin began to woo me before I was eleven."

"How long ago was that?" I meekly inquired.

"Don't you be rude," said James. "I take a grown-up size in almost everything. If Baffin perseveres, I suppose I shall really have to accept him—if it's only to make him leave off wearing those New Art ties. But, really and truly, I'd rather not be married at all. I don't believe I've got a married mind. I'm much too fond of rats."

"But," I ventured to point out, "people have been known to combine the two interests."

"Not successfully," asserted James. "Rats require a fearful lot of attention. Another thing about Baffin is his hands. I really couldn't be married to them."

"Why 'another' thing?" I inquired. "You haven't stated any firstly."

"I daresay my grammar isn't quite correct, but I haven't noticed that yours is perfect," rejoined James. "And, anyhow, my ideas are sound even if my grammar is weak. Of course, one could train him to take care of his nails; but with rats you have more to show for your trouble. He really was most touching."

"Baffin has a fine vein of sentiment," I admitted.

"Why Baffin?" demanded James. "I was talking about Mr. Grimsdick."

"Pardon me," I said. "You think so rapidly, and my hands are cold. Who is Mr. Grimsdick?"

"The one I was telling you about," explained James. "He's our grocer."

"But you never were telling me about him," I protested. "He is quite a new character."

"Nonsense," cried James. "Why, the very first thing I said to you was that Mr. Grimsdick had proposed to me. At least, I take it as a proposal. He held my hand and——"

"Excuse me," I ventured to observe, "but do you think it quite correct in the daughter of a respected family physician that she should go about the country holding hands with grocers? Now had it been——"

James cut short my speech with characteristic impatience. "Mr. Grimsdick," she said, "has been holding my hand for years."

"Does he sell lard?" I inquired.

"He is a very religious man, and when his wife died, when I was about seven, he used to give me raisins and pat my head to comfort himself. And this afternoon, when he gave me my change, he held my hand and he said, 'R! Miss, I expect we shall soon see you round yere shopping on your own account. How time do fly, to be shaw. You'll be having your hair up soon. And yet it don't seem no time since the days when you used to sit on the cheese barrels and swing your little legs and heat my raisins. 'E'll be a lucky young fellar whoever 'e is. They'll 'ave to 'urry up, miss, some of 'em—what? I on'y wish I was a young man—I'd give some of 'em a lead.'

"So I said, 'Never mind, Mr. Grimsdick. I shall always come to you for my soap and tea.'

"And he laughed. And he said, 'R! We shan't see much of you round 'ere, I reckon, miss. You'll be marrying into the aristocracy and goin' to live at Herne Bay or Clacton.'

"So then I gave him Fatty's well-known speech about the Idle Rich.

"And he said, 'Oh! If that's your way of thinkin' there's a chance for all of us. Well, miss, there's a empty chair in my parlour and a seat be'ind the cash desk.' I call that a proposal."

"A most definite and unequivocal proposal," I agreed. "What did you say next?"

"Oh," said James, "there was nothing else of importance. We got off on to the subject of Carlsbad plums: they were beauties, but too dear. He wouldn't reduce them."

"Pooh!" I cried. "And he calls himself a lover!"

"All men aren't like Baffin and other people, thank goodness," said James disdainfully. "Mr. Grimsdick thinks about the future. But I'd rather go in for rats, I think. There's Baffin, for instance: he never shuts a door after him."

"Rats don't either," I submitted.

"But cats don't open them," argued James, not without logic. "And then there's always having to be at home on the second Tuesday. Really, I can't decide about my future at all. Most girls haven't any difficulties, because they can make up their minds to be nurses and relieve the sufferings of the poor. But I've been brought up to that sort of thing, and it bores me. Of course, you can always get an opium-eater, or drunkard, or something, and devote your life to reforming him. But then, again, they always smell of it. Really, it's very hard. And Baffin's so irritable. Look at the way men fuss over trifles. And if you get one who is clean and not fussy, and not a grocer, and decently young, he is sure to be ugly and a bore."

I said, "You are referring now, I suppose, to Boag, the Conative Meliorist?"

"No," replied James. "Mr. Boag is a bore, but he isn't downright ugly. As a matter of fact, I was thinking of you."

"Oh!" I said.

"Yes," said James. "I know you like one to be frank. Apart from everything else, men make me sick. It will really have to be rats."

XXVI

THE APRIL BARGE

I set out, sedately enough, one April morning, to rescue James from her aunt at Bayswater. I set out grandly enthroned upon a 'bus.

But I came quite unexpectedly upon this April Barge, and James and her aunt were forgotten.

The April sun had come out sharp to time, you see, and was winking fitfully upon all of us, like the unsettled, rakish fellow that he is. And a girl with two great baskets full of wondering daffodils had come out, too; and some conscienceless vagabond was extracting melody from a cornet. So that even the Regent's Canal, with its sombre vicinage and sulky craft, seemed, as if by some surprising effort, to have taken on an air of sweetness and youth and hope.

You could consider this fact at leisure as our 'bus toiled slowly up the rise of a road which spans the canal. There was a public-house in front of us—the public-house and the cornet seem to be inseparably united in this neighbourhood—but the canal was to one's left, and appeared, somehow, to convey that air of refreshment which the tavern so conspicuously lacked.

As one looked down upon the face of these waters, so strangely heartened by the sunlight, a sort of certainty grew upon him that they would break suddenly into perspective; that their vista would cease to be obscured by coal wharves and cranes and hoardings; that somebody's whisky, commended to your notice in large white letters on a blue-enamelled background, would fade and fade and fade, until it merged with the white clouds and the blue sky behind it. Then need you but sigh and sit back, beholding a silver streak set snugly between hills, and flowing, flowing, flowing to the edge of the world. Instead of which——

Pooh! There was no instead. The April sun kept winking at the daffodils, and the daffodils kept staring at the sun, and the cornet-man made music by the waterside. So that even a poet might have smiled at it all. For here, I'll swear, was none of your mere "waterways," created by syndicates for profit; here was none of your world capitals. Just a little old river, sunning itself gratefully in a little old town that God had made.

And, as if to strengthen this conceit, a woman came up through the hatchway of a barge that I was looking at. She was wearing a sun-bonnet, in accordance with the custom of barge-women, and she stood up gracefully, one hand on her hip, the other before her eyes, to seek out the cornet player.

We are the boys of the bulldawg breed

What's made ole Hengland's Nime.

Those were the words which had inspired the melody which the cornet-blower was blowing. The woman tapped her foot in time with the notes.

Her husband came up then, accompanied by tobacco clouds and a baby. He seemed to be a fortunate sort of husband, for I noticed that the woman laughed appreciatively at some joke which he made.

Then the man's eye wandered to the canal-side, and he caught sight of the daffodil-girl, who was standing there. And what must the fellow do but throw kisses to her, which gallantry was reciprocated by the flower-girl. The barge-woman laughed at this new jest with even more good humour (if that were possible) than that which she had shown before. The man shouted some message or other to the flower-girl, and she replied, whereupon he handed the baby to his wife, saying, "Catch 'old, Fatty!"—an utterance which I heard without hearing, as one can when an April sun is shining on men's hearts. And, advancing to the side of the boat, the man held out his arms, and the girl threw daffodils towards him.

The first bloom fell into the water, and the second; the third he caught. One more poor daffodil was drowned, and he caught the two next. So that there was one for his cap, and one for the missus, and one for the baby, who, being now safely delivered from the paternal arms (which were not built for cradling babies), needed but the additional stimulus of a yellow thing to marvel at ere it smiled as largely as any of them.

And upon my word I smiled, too, and could, indeed, have laughed outright. But I sat in awe of a fat man on the adjacent seat. He did not belong to that order of lunatics who laugh for nothing in the sunshine. "What we want," he was saying to his companion, "what we want," he said, with his eyes fixed tight upon this April barge, "what we want is a total change of Government. Nothin' won't ever be right again till we get it."

I had a heavy parcel of books on my knee, and to drop them heavily upon his foot had been, as it were, the accident of a moment. But the sweet temperance of springtime had stolen into my blood, and I forbore. Besides which there were the barges and the daffodils, and they were better worth a man's consideration than this fool.