Chapter I Introducing Jim
People, unless they be star-gazers, do not walk along, as a rule, with their faces turned towards the sky; hence it was that the slender telephone wire communicating between Dr Mortimer’s private residence, “Pangora,” and the doctor’s private asylum, escaped the notice of all but a few who fared along the eight miles of high road dividing Threeways from Millingbourne, in the county of Eastfolkshire.
And yet this slender wire, which showed up against the blue sky much like a substantial cobweb, was fraught with interest. It was barely 300 yards in length, its installation had been a comparatively cheap and simple undertaking, and it had paid for itself scores of times over. Messages of life and death passed across it constantly; instructions in cases of emergency, tingling over the white line of road, saved the time that would otherwise have been occupied in walking the 300 yards—for doctors do not often run; reprimands were roared across it, bulletins despatched by its agency, dietary altered, medicine prescribed.
The sunshine was coquetting with the little wire, and the great oaks and elms were surveying the flirtation with affected indifference, one bright September morning, when Mr James Mortimer, the Doctor’s grandson, who was known among his hospital intimates as the “Long ’Un,” having breakfasted in trousers, shirt, and dressing-gown, rose from the table and ambled out into the surgery—for, in addition to an asylum, the doctor had a lucrative practice in that part of Eastfolkshire. The waiting-room adjoining the surgery was empty, save for one small, pale boy.
Although James was on holiday, he occasionally acted as deputy when his grandfather and the latter’s assistant were not at hand. And James was quite competent to do so, for he was a fully qualified surgeon.
“Well, Johnny, been eating green pears?”
The urchin looked guilty.
“Y-yes, sir.”
“Let’s see your tongue—ah! hum!” and the Long ’Un affected a serious expression as he mixed a stiffish dose of black draught. The urchin pulled a very wry face as he tasted the dose, and stopped for breath half-way through it.
“Every drop!” commanded the Long ’Un.
The urchin obeyed him, and then, bursting into tears, was pleased to be violently sick.
“You’ll feel better now—and here’s a penny for you,” quoth Jim Mortimer, in a truly paternal way for four-and-twenty.
But the urchin renewed his howling.
“I—I came up for me mother’s medicine,” he quavered; “I—she—she didn’t know I’d been eatin’ pears.”
The Long ’Un threw back his head and burst into a roar of laughter.
“By George! what a shot! Why, Johnny, I thought you’d come to be doctored. Well, here’s sixpence for you. Call again for the medicine—I don’t know anything about it.”
The urchin took the sixpence with a smile showing through his tears, and with a final sniff shuffled out of the waiting-room.
The Long ’Un still looking highly amused, approached the telephone and rang up the asylum.
“Ay, ay, sir!” came the response.
“That you, Hughes?”
“Yes, Mr James.”
“How’s the Zoo?”
“All quiet except the major. We’ve had to put him in the padded room.”
“The major again!”
“Yes, sir; broke out at breakfast. It took three of us to get him down. He very near pulled Smith’s windpipe out.”
“He doesn’t like Smith, does he?”
“‘Ates him, sir.”
“I think I’ll come across and have a look at him,” said Jim. “I have an idea I can handle the old chap.”
“Glad to see you, Mr James,” replied the head attendant; “you’re going back to town to-day, aren’t you, sir?”
“Yes—back to-day, worse luck.”
Without bothering to alter his garb, Jim Mortimer, his gay dressing-gown sweeping the ground, strolled out into the garden and sauntered along the gravel path which led to the high road. As he went he pulled lazily at his pipe. Both of the gardeners touched their hats and smiled a welcome as he passed; the Long ’Un was a favourite all over the settlement.
Certainly he looked a quaint figure as he emerged into the high road—a quaint but not unpleasing one. Long he was—six feet, and four inches over that—but square-shouldered and supple. His carriage was easy, but not of a military description, and he stooped slightly, with the stoop of the rowing-man rather than that of one engaged in sedentary work or of one who has overgrown his strength. He looked, as he strolled across the road, like a long, lean hound, trained to the hour, hard as steel and tough as hickory. His face was well cut, with rather sleepy eyes and a certain gentleness about the corners of the mouth that had caused his school-fellows to regard him as somewhat of a “soft”—until he hit them. His hair was clipped short and well brushed, and his complexion was pink with health and the application of cold water.
As Jim was moving across the road in his indolently graceful way, a carriage and pair approached at a quick trot. At a word from one of its occupants the coachman pulled up close by the young surgeon.
“Can you tell me, please, if this is Dr Mortimer’s?” inquired a stern-faced elderly lady, whose rich mantle and handsome equipage betokened her to be a person of means and possibly of position.
“Yes, all of this,” replied Jim, with a comprehensive wave of his hand which took in each side of the road, “is Dr Mortimer’s.” A pretty girl was sitting by his questioner’s side, and the fact was not lost upon Jim. “The Doctor is out,” he added, “but I am a medical man. Can I be of service to you?”
The lady surveyed Jim’s dressing-gown with evident disapproval, but Jim glanced unconcernedly at the telephone wire overhead. Meanwhile the pretty girl gazed straight before her at the blue smoke curling over the housetops in Threeways, having decided that this very tall man in such unorthodox attire was quite good-looking.
“I prefer to see Dr Mortimer himself. Do you think he will be in soon?”
“He may be in at any moment,” said Jim; “that is the way to his house,” he added to the coachman, “through those gates.”
“I am obliged to you.”
The lady sat back without troubling to bestow another glance on Jim, but she observed to her companion as they entered the drive that the extraordinary young fellow in the dressing-gown was probably one of the madmen.
Jim Mortimer, sauntering on, at length reached the asylum, a cheerful-looking red-brick-building, standing healthily high. He found Hughes in the patients’ common room—a spacious and airy apartment provided with a piano, a bagatelle board, and other requisites for indoor pastimes.
As Jim was chatting with the head attendant, a grey-haired, round-shouldered man of some sixty summers came up to them.
“Take care, Mr James!” he exclaimed, “he’s just behind you! Oh, if I had a gun now!”
Jim knew that Mr Richards—the speaker—had “alligators” on his bad days.
“No, he’s gone under the table,” replied Jim. “See him? Here, lend me a cue, and I’ll kill him.”
“That’s right,” said the poor fellow; “kill him, and I’ll leave you all my money. He sat on the end of my bed last night—he won’t let me alone. Kill him now he’s not looking.”
Jim seized the cue and slashed about under the table with it.
“There—I’ve done it. I’ve cut his head off.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” cried Mr Richards, bursting into tears. “You shall have every penny of my money.”
They left him crying quietly for joy. In a corner of the room a saturnine-looking gentleman was standing stock still with his eyes closed.
“Hullo!” said Jim, “I’ve not seen this one before. Who is he?”
“A new patient—a clergyman,” replied Hughes; “he thinks he’s dead. Comes to life for his meals, though.”
Jim laughed—the careless laugh of thoughtless youth—but the next moment his face became grave. He felt very much for these afflicted souls, and they seemed to know it, for in their half-witted way they loved “Mr James.”
After passing through several corridors, Jim and Hughes arrived at a room that was provided with a thick door in which was a grille of the old-fashioned kind. Within could be seen a red-faced, burly man, his clothing much disarranged, and his eyes wildly gleaming.
A stalwart attendant, with a bandage round his neck, was standing by, watching the occupant of the padded room through the little bars of the grille.
“I’ll go in and have a chat with him,” said Jim.
“You’d better not, sir,” returned Hughes; “you’ll take your life in your hands if you do.”
“Nonsense!” cried Jim. “Open the door, Smith!”
The attendant Smith—he who had been so unfortunate as to earn the major’s ill-will—shot back the bolt, and, as Jim stepped into the cell, made haste to secure the door behind him.
The patient fixed a glare of bovine ferocity on his caller as Jim advanced towards him.
“Morning, major! Men pretty fit this morning?”
The major had been about to hurl himself at the young fellow when Jim’s words stirred an old memory in his inflamed brain.
“What’s that to you—who are you?” he growled.
“The officer commanding the expedition,” rapped out Jim.
The major’s manner changed on the instant.
“The men are as well as can be expected, sir, considering the beastly bad water. Three more down with enteric to-day.”
“Dear—dear!” exclaimed Jim, “that’s bad. Well, major, we must hope for the best—hope for the best. And how are you yourself?”
“I think I’ve got a touch of the sun, sir,” said the major, “but I daresay it’ll pass off. I’ve been feeling queer up here for several days now,” he added, touching his forehead.
“What you want, major,” said Jim, “is a good sound sleep. You’re looking overworked. Now just you lie down on your mattress yonder and have a nap. You’ve been doing very well lately, major, and I shall mention you in my despatches.”
The poor madman’s face glowed with delight.
“I’m very much obliged to you, sir,” he said, with a world of gratitude in his voice.
“Well,” said Jim, “I must be going on. Now, do as I say, and have some sleep.”
“Thank you, sir, I think I will,” said the major, turning towards the mattress with touching docility.
Unfortunately, however, he happened to look round at the grating, and in an instant his face and manner changed. Jim, following the lunatic’s glance, saw that the attendant Smith was still peering through the bars.
“Get away from there—sharp!” he shouted, but even as he spoke the major hurled himself against the staunch oaken portal, and tore at it with his nails as he yelled imprecations at the object of his hate.
Jim stepped swiftly forward and laid his hand on the madman’s shoulder. The major turned like an infuriated beast, his fingers twitching, and his whole body convulsed with fury.
“I told you to get some sleep, major,” said Jim, imperiously, “and I expect my orders to be obeyed.”
For a terrible moment the attendants held their breath. But Jim looked the major coolly in the face. Had he flinched the very slightest, the madman would have been at his throat.
Still steadily eyeing the man, Jim pointed to the mattress, and slowly, doubtfully, the major crept towards it and lay down. In two minutes he was slumbering like a child.
Jim made sure that the major was fast asleep before he softly approached the door. Hughes let him out and shot the bolt back into its socket with all possible speed.
“The Doctor himself couldn’t have done it better, sir,” said the head attendant, with heartfelt admiration. “Will you come and see the cricket now, sir?” he added.
The milder of the asylum’s inmates were trying conclusions with bat and ball in an adjoining field. Jim, on arriving at the scene of play, displaced one of the attendants who was acting as wicket-keeper, and took up his position behind the sticks.
The ball came swiftly, and the batsman—a tall, broad-shouldered, ill-tempered-looking fellow—snicked it into Jim’s ready hands.
“How’s that?” roared the Long ’Un; but the attendant umpiring at the other end, being a diplomat, gave it as “Not out.”
As Jim trundled the ball back to the bowler, the big batsman turned to him and testily observed, “Please don’t ask a question of that sort again. I don’t like it.”
“My dear man,” said Mortimer, assuming that he was addressing one of the most reasonable inmates of the place, “if I catch you at the wicket, you’re out. That’s only fair.”
But the batsman merely glared at him sulkily.
The next ball was a still more palpable catch at the wicket, and was securely held.
“How’s that?” inquired Jim, who didn’t believe in showing the white feather. The words had hardly left his lips when the batsman swung round and aimed a terrific blow at his head—a blow that Jim, by great agility, just managed to avoid.
“I told you,” said the batsman, with dignity, “that I did not like you saying that.”
The ever-watchful Hughes hurried up.
“They’re only satisfied by being clean bowled, Mr James,” he explained, and then proceeded to administer a few words of rebuke to Jim’s assailant, who looked duly reproved.
The Long ’Un was meditating trying an over—with the laudable object of getting the big batsman out in a way he would quite understand—when a page-boy came hurrying towards him with a message to the effect that the Doctor wished to speak to him at the telephone.
So Jim had perforce to postpone his over, and left the field little dreaming that certain words which would shortly come to him across the wire were destined to affect his after-career in a remarkable manner.