Chapter XIV A Piece of News
Jim went to work on the ex-pawnbroking establishment with marvellous energy. He had bank-notes in his pocket, and a compelling personality which duly influenced the workmen he engaged to make the necessary alterations. In a few days his surgery was ready, and the door of it adorned with a neat brass plate bearing his name.
Koko called and ran a critical eye over the place. “It’ll do,” he said; “now go ahead and cut out old Taplow.”
“Well, it’s all your idea,” said Jim, “and carried out with your money, old man. By the way, many thanks for the loan. You bolted off in such a hurry the other day that I’d no time——”
“Had to go to a trotting match,” explained Koko, briefly.
Jim was rather surprised himself at the way he had “got to work.” In the morning he went off to his surgery full of zest and expectancy; his duties interested him keenly. True, very few people came to him to be doctored, but Jim had a stout heart, and thoroughly believed that he would be able to work up a good practice—in time. At present the folks round there went to the surgery they were used to—Dr Taplow’s. They were yet to learn what Jim was made of. The man Taplow had “put in” was ten years older than Jim—bearded and serious, with a grave, telling manner, behind which lay (apparently) a wealth of knowledge. Jim’s extreme youthfulness was against him. The ladies of the neighbourhood declared that they weren’t going to be doctored by a boy like that, and Taplow’s new man throve in consequence.
But Jim Mortimer did not lose heart. Before him was Dora’s face—this was the beacon that guided him and gave him hope. Dora—with whom he merely exchanged a few words daily! And so he plodded on his rounds, with Dora’s eyes, as lanterns, lighting the path that he trod.
The rough whom Jim had laid out in the fashion already described had not forgotten the incident. He had a sturdy band in the neighbourhood at his call, and one night, as Jim was issuing from a house in the Blackfriars Road, he found an ill-favoured ring of louts about him. Not a policeman was in sight, but a man was hosing down the pavement. Quick as thought, Jim made a dash for the hose, and, seizing it, turned it upon the Hooligans. The volume of water scattered them in all directions, and Jim, smiling, returned the hose to the road-cleaner with many thanks and a tip.
But the human scum of which this Hooligan band was composed was not easily daunted. It was equal to almost any atrocity—any meanness. It could kick a policeman’s head in, and steal his cape; it could waylay old men, rob them, and leave them half dead in the gutter. This scum could plan out its forays with deliberation and cunning. It could watch a man pace his way homewards on Monday and Tuesday, and let him go scatheless, but it would have him on Wednesday in some dark corner.
A less courageous man than Jim would have thrown up the sponge and retired to a safer neighbourhood. But Jim held on. They broke his red lamp and smashed his windows, but he merely requisitioned the services of a glazier, and hammered half the life out of a ruffian whom he found, a few nights later, about to put the knob of his stick through the new lamp. And so the Hooligans came to learn that the new doctor in Mount Street—the bearded man, curiously enough, they let severely alone—was made of about the sternest stuff they had ever encountered, and they saw that they would have to bide their time and watch most diligently for an opportunity to be revenged on him. But their desire to get even with him never abated. They were just waiting, and they knew they would not have to wait very long.
Jim used to reach the surgery in the morning about ten. Between one and two, or two and three—according to his engagements—he had his lunch at the emporium of Harris & Father, or at some other eating-house situated near his work. Tea was served to him (when he was there to have it) by an old dame whom he had engaged to look after the house and do the cleaning. This lady occupied a couple of the upper back rooms, for Mr Harris, losing no time in carrying out his hoarding scheme, had let off the upper walls of the front to a bill-posting firm, the result being that that portion of the ex-pawnbroking establishment which faced the street was soon covered with flaming placards drawing attention to whatever melodrama was being played at the local theatre. As Mr Harris had anticipated, these posters attracted much attention, and Mount Street wayfarers stopped constantly to gape at the thrilling scenes depicted in crude and aggressive colours above Jim’s surgery. Not being aware of Mr Harris’s responsibility for this display, Mount Street naturally conjectured that Jim Mortimer had let off the walls on his own account; and so, while some of its inhabitants expressed admiration for Jim’s cuteness, others declared that a doctor ought to be above getting money in that way, adding that Taplow didn’t descend to such catchpenny tricks, which showed that he could afford to do without them.
The posters were a source of constant amusement to Jim himself, and he took a keen interest in the weekly changes of the pictorial decoration of his outside walls. The men who came every Monday to paste up new “bills” soon got to know the young doctor, and one of them gruffly invited Jim to pay a call on his father-in-law, who seemed unable to throw off an obstinate attack of bronchitis. Jim promptly looked up the old man; after examining him, he stripped him to the skin and rubbed him all over with brandy. “It’ll be all right,” said Jim, “you’ll see.” And it was, for the fierce spirit drew out the inflammation, and within three days the bill-poster’s father-in-law was able to go downstairs. The story of the cure, needless to say, was related in every public-house in the district—and from that hour more patients began to trickle into Mortimer’s surgery.
Jim went home for dinner, but returned to his surgery directly the meal was over. One night, however, he did not go to the surgery, but, instead, stayed at No. 9 and helped Frank with his home-lessons. They had the dining-room to themselves, and were soon deeply immersed in the Rivers of Europe. Presently Dora peeped in—a little shyly, it seemed to Jim—and Frank sang out: “I say, Dora, this is a lark; come and see!”
For Jim had drawn a rough outline map of Europe, and Frank was filling in the countries and rivers, Jim holding the map proper before him and coaching his pupil with characteristic energy.
“It waggles there,” Jim said, as, Dora having seated herself by her brother, Frank started on the Danube, “and now it goes straight on. Steady, man—you’re making it run over a mountain. Now, waggle it a bit more. That’s prime.”
Frank enjoyed the lesson hugely, and presently Dora drew a river—the Rhine—and won much partial praise from Mr Mortimer.
After that Jim took Frank through his French verbs, Dora flagrantly prompting her brother, and from this they proceeded to English History, Jim giving Frank a racy description of James the Second’s flight, and the causes leading up to it, which somehow stuck in Frank’s head to such effect that on the following day he was awarded eighty marks out of a possible hundred, and greatly astonished his form-master by displaying such unusual evidences of industrious preparation.
It was a happy evening—Jim never remembered spending a happier—and Mortimer went to his work next day with a light heart and a most tender recollection of Dora drawing the course of a river very incorrectly.
But such happy evenings as this had been do not often occur in anybody’s life—it is their unexpectedness which gives them the charm which lingers in one’s memory.
Jim helped Frank on several occasions after that, but Dora did not join them. She was out, Frank supposed, with Mr Jefferson. Such announcements filled Jim with forebodings which were to be realised only too speedily.
One evening, when Jim had been established in his new surgery about three weeks, Koko looked in.
“Hullo, Koko!”
“Hullo, Jim!”
Koko sat down and glanced about him.
“Business improving, Jim?”
“Things are looking better, thanks, old man.”
“And as to No. 9?”
“Cold generally; variable breezes,” was Jim’s weather report.
“He doesn’t know yet,” thought Koko. Then he added: “I met Miss Cook to-day.”
“Oh, how is she?” said Jim, carelessly, as he went on making up medicine.
“He ought to know,” thought Koko, adding aloud: “She’s all right. Gave me a bit of information—about Dora.”
Jim stared round at his friend with a blank look on his face. “Eh?”
“She took a fortnight to make up her mind. She accepted him yesterday, and was wearing his ring to-day.”
“Jefferson?”
Koko nodded a grave affirmative.