Chapter VII Sir Savile’s Offer
“But,” said Koko as he handed the letter back to Jim, “how on earth did your local rag get hold of it? I’ve seen both my friends since, and they assured me they didn’t write a line about you.”
“I give it up,” said Jim; “the fact remains that the old man has got wind of it.”
“But isn’t this action on his part a bit sudden?” demanded Koko.
“He said he would,” said Jim, munching a piece of watercress (Mrs Freeman’s unvarying Tuesday breakfast was ham and watercress), “but I didn’t think he meant it.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t mean it,” said Koko, hopefully.
“I am very much afraid,” returned Jim, “that he does, though. You see, he was already wild with me, as he had had to stump up for that big window I broke—you remember! Twelve quid—that was the bill. He told me about it over the telephone. I wish I’d been able to have a square talk with him, face to face; he wouldn’t have been half so wild, I put all this down to that rotten telephone.”
“Don’t quite perceive how it’s to blame,” said Koko.
“Don’t you! Why, if he tackled me face to face, I could have filled him up with all sorts of promises of reformation, and sent him off for his drive feeling sorry that I was going away. Instead of which he went off in a beastly huff. I should have reminded him—as touching the window—that some fellows charge their paters and grandpaters hundreds and even thousands. I should have explained that twelve pounds was a very light let-off. Hang the telephone!”
“The question is,” said Koko, “do you think he means it?”
“Yes,” replied the Long ’Un, with conviction.
“Then,” continued the other, “what are you going to do?”
“I dunno! Turn sporting reporter very likely!”
“Well,” said Koko, “with your knowledge of sporting matters you might be able to earn about twelve and sixpence a week just now—say by reporting football matches. That would hardly keep a man of your expensive tastes.”
Jim laughed.
“Couldn’t I do the fights at the National?” he suggested.
“No, my boy; you’ve had no experience—of reporting, I mean. But, seriously, Jim, can’t you get a doctoring job?”
“I shall have a look round for something,” said Jim.
Koko gazed at the ceiling.
“If it hadn’t been for that girl,” he mused sorrowfully, “this would never have happened. You were off your head about her——”
“Absolutely!” agreed Jim.
Koko sighed. “Women are always at the bottom of man’s undoing. Avoid them in future, Jim.”
“Not I,” said Jim; “I’m not built that way.”
“Well, you’ve lost any chance you had of getting this one,” said Koko.
Jim’s face fell.
“By George! I hadn’t thought of that. I’m glad I didn’t send that wire about Canadian Pacifics. We shall meet on more level terms now.”
“Upon my word,” said Koko, “I think you are the most optimistic man I have ever met. Here are you—disowned—kicked out—cut off without a shilling by your grandfather—and you are still thinking——”
“I still hope,” breathed Jim, devoutly.
Mr Somers walked towards the door. However, he turned back to say one more thing.
“If, Jim, you should find it necessary to approach another kind of relative——”
“I fear I shall find it necessary,” sighed the Long ’Un.
“I was going to say,” continued Koko, “that if you want to pawn anything, I’ll pawn it for you. I can nip in easier than you.” And with that he went quietly on his way.
Having shaved and dressed, Jim set out, as a matter of course, for the hospital. As he walked along he reviewed the situation, and the awkwardness of his present plight became clearly apparent to him.
Yesterday he was the heir to a fortune and a flourishing practice. (The asylum he left out of his calculations, as he was aware that a private institution of this kind can now—according to the law of the land—only descend from father to son, and on the death of the latter must cease to exist.) To-day he was a young man of four-and-twenty, with a medical qualification, various surgical implements, a small collection of well-thumbed works relating to his craft, a sufficient wardrobe, and some thirty shillings in cash. Thus provided, the world was before him, and he was wondering what sort of a job he and the world would make of it, when, as he blundered absent-mindedly round the corner of the street in which St Matthew’s Hospital was situated, he ran plump into the stalwart form of Sir Savile Smart, the eminent specialist of whom mention has already been made.
“What—Mortimer!”
“How do you do, Sir Savile?”
The great man’s moustache hid a smile as he observed: “And how many more policemen’s helmets have you added to your collection?”
Jim blushed.
“You’ll get a fine wigging from your grandfather if he hears of your latest adventure,” added Sir Savile.
“He has heard of it, sir,” said Jim, and forthwith told the specialist of what had befallen him.
Sir Savile bit his moustache.
“No hope of a reprieve, I suppose?”
“No hope whatever, I fear,” said Jim.
Sir Savile hailed a cab. “I’m due at Harley Street in fifteen minutes, but I can talk to you on the way.”
He laid his hand kindly on the Long ’Un’s arm as the cab approached them, and to Jim’s credit be it said that he felt, at that moment, that he had more good friends than he deserved to have.
“Practically,” said Sir Savile, as the cab sped westwards, “you want a billet?”
Jim ruefully acknowledged that he couldn’t live on air.
“You want a billet? Good. I’ve got one for you.”
He pulled a letter out of his pocket.
“My friend Taplow—‘the ladies’ doctor’ they call him—has a surgery over the water. As you may know, it’s not an uncommon thing for a man with a fat West-end practice to run a shilling and six-penny shop in the slums. Anything for money, Mortimer! Well, as I said, he’s got a surgery over the water—in the Blackfriars district—and he wants a man to look after it. He’ll pay about a hundred and twenty a year. Any good to you?”
“Better than living on air,” said Jim.
“Experience, too,” continued Sir Savile; “heaps. It’s a rough, poverty-stricken quarter—very rough. You’ll make acquaintance with the masses. The man lately in charge of the place was not quite up to the work—too old. And he was unfortunate in his end——”
“End!” said Jim. “Is he dead, then?”
“Dead as a door-nail.”
“What did he die of?” queried Jim.
“Boots and knives. He was killed by Hooligans.”
The Long ’Un opened his eyes wide.
“Perhaps,” said Sir Savile, “you will now think that even living on air is better than risking one’s chances of living on anything?”
“Not at all, sir,” said Jim, stoutly; “I’m quite willing to take it on.”
“I believe you are. Well, go and try it. Taplow’s out of town, and has asked me to put somebody in temporarily. I will put you in. Any morbid objections to sleeping in your predecessor’s bedroom?”
“None at all,” said Jim.
“Right! You had better go to the place where he lodged, then. The surgery has no living rooms attached to it—it’s just a surgery and waiting-room. When we get to Harley Street I’ll give you full particulars. Quite sure you don’t mind going?”
“Quite,” replied Jim.
“I do like a man that knows his own mind,” said the specialist in a tone of approval. “You needn’t stay there for ever, you know—you’re too good for that sort of work.”
Jim blushed again.
“Still, it’ll tide you over the present difficulty. That’s the point. Ah, yes—and I must also give you the address of the place where you’re to lodge. Better send them a wire. House is about ten minutes’ walk from the surgery; people are gentlefolk, I believe—family—come down in the world. I remember Taplow speaking of them to me—knows something of them, and recommended his man there. One of the daughters is a post-office clerk—very pretty—that’ll suit you, eh?”
“I intend to devote myself entirely to work in future, sir,” said Jim.
“Ah, yes! Quite so—quite so!” said the specialist chuckling. “Let’s see, yes—I recollect—the name is—er—Marcombe—Mayflower—Maybury—that’s it.”
Jim uttered an exclamation.
“Eh?—what?” inquired Sir Savile.
“N—nothing, sir, nothing!”
“Oh,” returned the specialist, “I thought you were going to say something.”