Chapter X At the Surgery
Jim set out for the surgery next morning feeling somewhat depressed. His sins were coming home to him. The attitude adopted towards him generally by No. 9 was a hostile one. After the sad disclosures on the previous evening, Miss Bird and Mr Cleave had, metaphorically, turned their backs on him; Mrs Maybury was coldly polite; Miss H. R. Maybury (a thin, angular young lady) barely recognised his presence; and, on the whole, Jim would have spent a most chilly evening had not Mr Maybury invited him to play chess.
“Seems to me,” said Jim, as he left Derby Crescent, “I’m not in good odour there. Shall I leave or shall I live it down? I should like to leave, but—hullo!”
This exclamation was caused by the hitherto unnoticed presence of Tom, the great black cat, who had quietly followed Jim out of the Crescent into the main road, and seemed bent on accompanying the young doctor to his destination. Jim endeavoured to make the cat go back, but Tom persisted in accompanying him, and so at length the two reached Mount Street, where Dr Taplow’s surgery was situated.
On the pavement by the surgery door a group of meanly clad people were already waiting for “the Doctor.” The women—they were all women or children—gazed with interest on the Long ’Un. He was a man most people looked at twice, and to these poor souls he was of peculiar interest, for he was to minister to their ills. And who—in times of sickness—is of greater interest to one than the man who possesses the skill to make one well again?
“Waiting to see me?” said Jim, cheerily, “All right—you may come in in a moment.”
Scouring the passage that lay on the other side of the door was a hag of forbidding appearance.
“I am Mr Mortimer,” said Jim, in reply to her stare of inquiry. “I have come to take charge of the practice.”
Passing by her, he opened a door on the right and entered the waiting-room—a bare apartment furnished with a few chairs and a table, on which latter lay a scanty collection of well-thumbed periodicals. Opening out of this was the surgery, which had not been entered, save by the hag aforesaid, since Dr Morgan had come by his untimely end.
On the desk lay the open ledger-with its quaint Latin entries—exactly as poor old Morgan had left it. On the shelves were the usual ranks of bottles containing acids, poisons, and other drugs; and here and there on the counter under the shelves stood various dose-glasses, phials, a stethoscope, and a pair of forceps, in whose grim clutch a rotten double tooth that had been wrenched from some unfortunate aching jaw still remained. The place was dirty and untidy, and altogether the sight that met Jim’s eyes was most dispiriting. This was, indeed, a humble surgery in a humble district!
Still, Jim did not lose heart. He was fresh from one of the first hospitals in London—in spite of the sudden change in his fortunes he was full of enthusiasm, and eager to apply his knowledge.
The patients filed in, and Jim saw each in turn. They were all suffering from common ailments, and the Long ’Un—after his varied experience among the out-patients at Matt’s, where he had sometimes doctored a hundred persons in one morning—made short work of them.
One little girl had a rash on her chest and back. Jim readily diagnosed the complaint as chicken-pox.
“Take her home and keep her in bed for a week, mum!” said he, to the girl’s mother; “keep her warm, mind. If she gets a chill, it will drive the spots in, and the child may be very ill then. Keep her warm. Medicine? No, she doesn’t want medicine. Just keep her warm—and away from the other children. All live in one room? Well, they’ll all have it—if they’ve not had it before. Just as well. Sixpence, please!”
A young seamstress had no appetite and felt too weak to work. No, she wasn’t married—she helped her mother. Take anything to drink? Only tea. How often? Oh, the pot was on the hob all day. They just helped themselves when they wanted it.
“The matter with you, mum,” said Jim, “is tea! You’re poisoning yourself. So comforting? Yes, but it’s poison. No more tea, mum! Medicine? Yes. I’ll make you up a nice tonic. And go out for a walk every evening—don’t tire yourself, though!”
But it wasn’t all sixpenny and shilling counter-trade. Later in the day—when it had been noised about that a new doctor had come to take charge of the practice—various messages—some verbal, some scribbled on notepaper—arrived. Would the doctor come to see Mrs Smith, who was suffering from heart complaint; and Mrs Jones, who had nothing at all the matter with her, but always thought she had? So Jim sallied forth and paid calls on the wives of fishmongers and ironmongers, and greengrocers, and publicans—nearly all his patients were women—ascended rickety staircases, dived into evil-smelling bedrooms, and went hither and thither and about and around on his useful errands of healing and comfort.
Over the way, just opposite, was a provision shop and eating-house, bearing the name of “Harris & Son.”
From the portals of this establishment, about two o’clock in the afternoon, issued a weary little old man of Jewish appearance, who, after glancing up and down Mount Street, crossed over to the surgery.
He found Jim doing up some medicine.
“How d’ye do, doctor?” said he.
“How are you, sir?”
“Queer, doctor. Thought I’d come and ask your advice.”
“Go ahead,” said Jim, jabbing a stick of sealing-wax into the gas-jet.
“I’ve a funny feeling all over my ’ead—not in the ’ead, but all over it. I’ve been a good deal worried of late, doctor.”
“Sort of feeling as if your hair was being brushed?” inquired Jim.
“That’s it. Not so nice, though.”
“I know it,” said Jim; “I’ve had it myself when I’ve been stewing hard for an exam.” (He hadn’t really, but “having had it himself” was a medical formula that he deemed it well to abide by—it comforted patients.)
“Vell, I never! Vot is it, doctor?”
“Irritation of the subcutaneous nerves,” said Jim, wisely.
“Ah!” said the weary little old man, “sounds bad!”
“Oh no—it’ll soon go off. I’ll make you up a tonic with a touch of bromide in it. That’ll soothe you.”
“Bromide! Vy, ain’t that the vicked stuff society ladies take?”
“Some of them. But they take it neat—yours will be diluted.”
Jim made up a bottle of “the mixture,” and the old man laid down his shilling.
“I feel better already, sir,” he said; “’ope you’ll come over to our place and get a bit to eat when you vant it. I’m from over the road—Harris.”
“Right!” said Jim, “I won’t forget. Good-day, Mr Harris.”
And in this way an adventure befell Jim, for, feeling hungry about an hour later, he went over to the emporium of Harris & Son. Blocking up the doorway he found a burly ruffian with close-cropped hair and a scarf round his neck.
“Now, my man!” said Jim, wishing to pass by.
The gentleman addressed turned on him with an oath.
“Oo are you ‘my manning,’ young lamp-post? You get out of my way—d’ye ’ear?”
Now Jim conjectured—and rightly—that the ruffian in question was of the Hooligan order, or belonged to a class of society near akin to that order. So, being aware that he had to hold his own in this district, and that it would never do to be intimidated, and bearing in mind that in situations of this kind it was a good plan to hit first and hit hard, he let drive between the fellow’s eyes and knocked him clean off his feet.
This done, he stepped over him and proceeded to the counter to order some food.
As the rascal dropped, a pale slip of a girl, who was holding a baby, started up from the table at which she was sitting and rushed towards the prostrate figure.
The man Jim had felled struggled to his feet with a flood of imprecations pouring from his lips. The blow had dazed him, and for a few moments he glared about him in an uncertain way. Then, as his senses cleared, he perceived Jim, and gave a hoarse cry, fumbling the while at the heavily buckled belt which he wore round his waist.
“Oh, Jack—don’t!” cried the girl, interposing her slender form between the man and the object of his meditated vengeance. As she did so, Jim noticed that one of her eyes was discoloured; it was not hard to guess who had caused the injury.
“Get over the counter!” cried Mr Harris; “you’ll be safer ’ere.”
“Not I,” said Jim; “I can look after myself.”
“’E’s a terror,” said the old man, in a hasty undertone; “e’s a Hooligan—the worst of ’em—their boss.”
“I don’t care,” said Jim; “I can tackle him.”
At length the Hooligan managed to unclasp his belt, but even as he did so two policemen entered the shop.
“Now then—get out of this—quick!”
They knew him—evidently. They were two to his one. And there was Mortimer near at hand to help if required.
The Hooligan was not without some regard for his personal well-being. Directing a scowl of hate at Jim, he put on his belt again and left the shop, followed by the girl.
“Same old game?” said one of the constables to Mr Harris.
“I didn’t see it all—but I believe this gentleman knocked ’im down,” replied Mr Harris. “’E’s the noo doctor over the road.”
The policeman eyed Jim with interest.
“I’d advise you to be careful, sir,” he said; “that’s the most dangerous man in these parts. He’s just done six months, and only came out three days ago. We’ve been keeping an eye on him.”
“I’ll look out—never fear,” said Jim.
For some hours after that Jim was very busy, but even in the midst of his work he seemed to see the white, pleading face of the Hooligan’s girl-wife. No doubt she loved the brute—no doubt she had been endeavouring to keep him in a good temper ever since he had come out of prison. And the man, smarting from his recent confinement, sulky, and conscious of his bull-like strength, had probably been thirsting for a quarrel all these three days.
Then Jim’s sharp speech fell on his ear, and the Hooligan wasn’t accustomed to being spoken to sharply by anybody save a policeman. He had wheeled round fiercely, and had hardly had time to take stock of the person addressing him before he was floored. He had never received such quick treatment before in his life.
“Still,” thought Jim, “I wouldn’t have hit him had I known his wife was there. At any rate, I’d have let him hit me first.”
Jim got some tea at a shop in Blackfriars Road, and was fully employed making up medicine at the surgery until it was dusk, and the street lamps were shining yellow. Then he bethought him of Derby Crescent and dinner.
He was tidying up the surgery preparatory to taking his leave of the place for the day, when there came a short, peremptory knock on the street door, which he had previously closed. Jim heard a murmur of voices without. A woman, it seemed, was remonstrating with a man.
Jim went to the door and opened it. There, awaiting him, was the Hooligan; a little farther off stood the latter’s slip of a wife.
“Well?” said Jim, curtly.
Even as he spoke the girl gave the alarm: “Look out, sir—he’s got his belt off!” But the Hooligan was too quick, and the heavy buckle of the belt came crash on to Jim’s head, just above the brow, ere the woman’s warning was finished.
It was a frightful blow, and extracted a cry of pain from Jim. One cry, and then Jim sprang forward, dodged the belt swinging at his head again, and closed with the Hooligan. The two forms fell with a crash—Jim on top. In a second he was kneeling on the ruffian, his hands upon the other’s throat.
“Oh, sir—oh, sir!—don’t give him in charge! Oh, sir—he shan’t do it again!—please don’t give him in charge!”
It was a piteous appeal, and Jim, hearing, rose to his feet.
“All right—take him away!”
Jim’s head was swimming, and the blood was trickling over his face.
He staggered back into the passage, feeling that his senses were leaving him. Supporting himself by the wall, he passed through the waiting-room, gained the surgery proper, and was clutching at the counter when a figure appeared in the doorway.
It was the Hooligan—with an uglier look than ever in his eyes.
Jim saw the brutal face and the uplifted belt. The man was going to hit him again. The belt rose—but of a sudden help arrived from an unexpected quarter, for at that moment a little, quick-moving man entered the surgery, and, noting the position of affairs, seized the Hooligan’s wrists, and brought the ruffian to the floor with a neat trip.
“I got your card, and came along as soon as I could,” said Koko. “By the way, who’s your friend?”
“Oh, he was only getting even with me,” said Jim. “I hit him earlier in the day.”
The Hooligan’s wife was endeavouring to make her husband leave the waiting-room, but he seemed anxious to renew the combat.
Her expostulations ceased abruptly, however—as did the man’s maledictions—and a new voice fell upon the hearing of the two friends.
“Now, my good people, do you want anything here? If you will wait a few moments you shall be attended to.”
Then Jim and Koko saw the doorway of the surgery proper filled by a portly form.
“You are Mr Mortimer, I believe?” said the new arrival. “I am Dr Taplow. I am greatly obliged to my friend Sir Savile for obtaining your services for me, and must thank you for acting as my locum tenens to-day. I am accompanied, however, by the gentleman I myself have appointed to take charge of the practice, and so I shall not require you after to-day.”
Jim bowed. “Very good, sir,” he replied.
“By the way—are you hurt?” inquired Dr Taplow.
“It’s only a scratch,” said Jim, reaching down his hat.
“Indeed! I was afraid it was something worse... er—if you will let me know what I owe you, I will send you a cheque... er... come in, Dr Perkins, come in... er—good evening, Mr Mortimer!”