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personality. Day in, day

out, he bustled into the red-windowed front room as the

hand of the clock came to the hour. Nothing but the

most flagrant necessity was permitted to interfere with the

precision of his practice. And since John Tugler did not

spare his own body, it was not reasonable that he should

spare those who worked for hire.

 

It was March 2d, a Tuesday, with a wet fog clogging

the streets, when James Murchison arrived at the dispensary as the clock struck nine. The front room, packed as to its benches, steamed like a stable. The indescribable odor that emanates from the clothes of the poor

made the air heavy with the smell of the unwashed slums.

 

Dr. Tugler glanced up briskly as the big man entered,

screwed up his mouth, nodded, and jerked an elbow in

the direction of the clock.

 

“Bustle along, Mr. Murchison. There are half a

dozen cases waiting for you in the surgery.”

 

Murchison said nothing, but passed on. His face had

a white, drawn look, and he seemed to move half-blindly,

like a man exhausted by a long march in the sun.

 

Tugler looked at him curiously, frowned, and then

rattled off a string of directions to an old woman seated

beside him, her red hands clutching the old leather bag

in her lap.

 

“Medicine three times a day before meals. Drop

the drink. Regular food. Come again next week.

Shilling? That’s right. Next please.”

 

The old woman’s sodden face still poked itself towards

the doctor with senile eagerness.

 

“I ‘ope you won’t be minding me, sir, but this ‘ere—”

 

Dr. Tugler became suddenly deaf.

 

“Next, please.”

 

There was something in the atmosphere suggestive of

a barber’s shop. A robust collier was already waiting

for the old lady to vacate her chair.

 

“I was goin’ to ask you, doctor—”

 

“This time next week. We’re busy. Goodmorning,

Smith; sit down.”

 

The woman licked a drooping lip with a sharp, dry

tongue, looked at the doctor dubiously, and began to

fumble in her bag.

 

“I’ve got a box of pills ‘ere, sir, as—”

 

“Hem.”

 

Tugler cleared his throat irritably, and appeared surprised to find her still sitting at his elbow.

 

“Pills?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“What for?”

 

“The bowels, sir.”

 

“Need ‘em?”

 

“Well, sir, as I might say, sir, I’m obstinate, very obstinate—”

 

“Let’s look at the box.”

 

“You don’t be thinkin’, doctor, there’s any ‘arm?”

 

“Harm! Bread and ginger. Take the lot. Sit down,

Smith,” and Dr. Tugler’s emphasis ended the discussion

with the finality of fate.

 

When the room had cleared, and the last bottle had

been passed through the dispensary window, that opened

like the window of a railway booking-office into the alley

at the side of the shop, Dr. Tugler marched into the surgery where Murchison had finished syringing the wax

out of an old man’s ears.

 

“Overslept yourself, Murchison? I must buy you an

alarum, you know, if it happens again.”

 

Murchison was washing his hands at the tap over the

sink.

 

“No,” he said, “I was up half the night.”

 

John Tugler, cheerful little bully that he was, noticed

the sag of the big man’s shoulders, and the peculiar

harshness of his voice.

 

“Get through with it all right?”

 

Murchison stared momentarily at Dr. Tugler over his

shoulder, a glance that had the significance of the flash

of a drawn sword.

 

“It was not one of your cases,” he said.

 

“Private affair, eh?”

 

“My child is ill.”

 

“Your child?”

 

“Yes; I’m a bit worried, that’s all.”

 

Murchison turned the tap off with a jerk, rasped the

dirty towel round the roller, and began to dry his hands

as though he were trying to crush something between his

palms. Dr. Tugler thrust out a lower lip, looked hard

at Murchison, and fidgeted his fists in his trousers-pockets.

 

“What’s the matter?”

 

The big man’s silence suggested for a moment that he

resented the abruptness of the question.

 

“Can’t say yet.”

 

“Serious?”

 

“I’m afraid so, yes.”

 

Dr. Tugler frowned a little, stared hard at the ventilator,

and pulled his hands out of his pockets with a jerk.

 

“Look here, Murchison, you’ve lost your nerve a little. I’ll come round and have a look at the youngster.

You had better knock off work to-day.”

 

“Thanks, I’d rather stick to it. You might see the

child, though. I—”

 

“Well?”

 

Murchison had turned his face away, and was standing by the window, fumbling with his cuff links.

 

“I don’t like the look of things. I don’t know why,

but a man’s nerve seems to go when he’s doctoring his

own kin.”

 

“That’s so,” and Dr. Tugler nodded.

 

“Then you’ll come round?”

 

“Supposing we go at once?”

 

“It’s good of you.”

 

“Bosh.”

 

And Dr. Tugler turned into the front room, took his

top-hat from the gas bracket, and began to polish it with

his sleeve.

CHAPTER XXIII

A MARCH wind blew the dust and dead leaves in

eddies through the breadth of Castle Gate as Dr.

Steel’s brougham drew up before the timbered front of

a Jacobean house. The mellow building with its carved

barge-boards and great sweeping gables bore the date of

1617, and still carried a weather-worn sign swinging on

an iron bracket. For the last fifty years the ground floor

had been used as a grocery shop, a dim, rambling cavern

of a place fragrant with the scent of coffee and spices.

The proprietor, Mr. Isaac Mainprice, a very superior

tradesman who dabbled in archaeology, had refrained

from gilt lettering above the door; nor did the quaint

leaded windows glare with advertisements, whiskey bottles, and Dutch cheeses. Every one within ten miles of

Roxton knew Mr. Mainprice. His prosperity did not

need to be flaunted upon his windows.

 

“Good-day, madam. Terribly windy. Permit me.”

Mrs. Betty had swept across the pavement in her sables,

an opulent figure wooed by the March wind. Mr. Mainprice had fussed forward in person. He bowed in his

white apron, swung a chair forward, and then dodged behind the counter. The shop was empty, and three melancholy assistants studied Mrs. Betty from behind pyramids

of sweetmeats and packages of tea, for the face under the

white toque had all the imperative fascination of smooth

and confident beauty.

 

Mrs. Steel drew out a little ivory memorandumbook,

and glanced at it perfunctorily, before looking up into Mr.

Mainprice’s attentive face. He was a weak-eyed, damphaired man, with a big nose and a loose, good-tempered

mouth. A patch of red on either cheek seemed to suggest that the epicier cultivated an authoritative taste in

port, sherry, and Madeira.

 

“I want some jellies and soups, Mr. Mainprice.”

 

“Certainly, madam.”

 

“There are a few poor people my husband attends. I

want to help them with a few little delicacies.”

 

Mrs. Betty’s drawl was most confidentially sympathetic, and Mr. Mainprice ducked approvingly behind the

counter.

 

“What brand, madam? Lazenby’s, Cross & Blackwell’s?”

 

“Oh the best what you recommend.”

 

“Thank you, madam.”

 

“Let me see,” and Mrs. Betty’s eyes wandered with

an air of delightful innocence about the shop; “I like the

glassed jellies best. Six. Yes, six. And six tins of desiccated soup.”

 

“Certainly, madam. The large size?”

 

“Yes. Will you have them made up into different

parcels? I will take them in the carriage.”

 

“Certainly, madam.”

 

Mr. Mainprice nodded sharply to the three melancholy

assistants, and then bent over the counter to scribble in

his order-book.

 

“Very windy weather, madam.”

 

Mrs. Betty glanced up brightly at the suave, thinwhiskered face, and smiled. She had a great variety of

smiles, and Mr. Mainprice was an intelligent person, and

a man who was not ashamed of wearing a white apron.

Moreover, he was an excellent patient, the father of five

tall and unhealthy daughters, and the sympathetic husband of a neurasthenic wife.

 

“Terribly windy,” she agreed. “This is a dear old

house, but I suppose it is rather draughty.”

 

“No, madam, no, we find it very comfortable. I have

had double windows fitted to the upper rooms.”

 

“They make such a difference.”

 

“Such a difference, madam.”

 

There was a short pause. Mr. Mainprice was a nervous man. He had a habit of sniffing, and of opening and

shutting his order-book as though it was imperative for

him to keep his hands occupied.

 

“Dr. Steel is very busy, madam?”

 

“Oh, very busy; so much influenza.”

 

“I am afraid, madam,” and Mr. Mainprice elongated

himself over the counter with a waggish side twist of the

head “I am afraid we selfish people don’t show Dr.

Steel much mercy.”

 

Mrs. Betty laughed.

 

“I believe you yourself have been particularly wicked

this winter, Mr. Mainprice.”

 

“I must plead guilty, madam.”

 

“You are quite well now, I hope?”

 

Mr. Mainprice frowned, and half shut one eye.

 

“Nearly well, madam. I ventured out last night without orders.”

 

“The Primrose League Concert?”

 

“Now, madam, you have found me out!”

 

Mrs. Betty and the epicier regarded each other with a

sympathetic sense of humor.

 

“We were there, Mr. Mainprice, and I was so annoyed

because Dr. Steel was called away just before your daughter sang.”

 

“Indeed, madam,” and Mr. Mainprice sniffed with

nervous satisfaction.

 

“The best item on the programme. Such a sweet contralto, and such musical feeling. I remember poor Mrs.

Murchison used to sing some of the same songs. Of

course she never had your daughter’s artistic instinct.”

 

Mr. Mainprice colored, and looked coy.

 

“The girl has had first-class lessons, Mrs. Steel. I

believe in having the best of everything. I have been

very fortunate, madam, and though I ought not to mention it, money is no consideration.”

 

The grocer straightened his back suddenly, with a mild

snigger of self-salutation.

 

“Money well spent, Mr. Mainprice—”

 

“Is money invested, madam. Exactly. And a good

education is an investment in these days.”

 

Two of the melancholy assistants were carrying the

parcels to Mrs. Betty’s carriage. She rose with a rustle

of silks, her rich fur jacket setting off her slim but sensuous figure. Mr. Mainprice dodged from behind the

counter, and preceded her to the door.

 

“If it will be any convenience, Mrs. Steel, we can deliver the parcels immediately.”

 

“Thank you, I want to see the people myself. I like

to keep in touch with the poor, Mr. Mainprice.”

 

The grocer’s weak eyes honored a ministering angel.

 

“Exactly, madam. Permit me —”

 

He edged through the door with a nervous clearing of

the throat, blinked as the wind blew a cloud of dust

across the road, and escorted my Lady Bountiful to her

carriage.

 

“What address, madam?”

 

“Thank you so much, Mr. Mainprice, the coachman

knows.”

 

And Mr. Mainprice stood on the curb for fully ten

seconds, watching Dr. Steel’s brougham bear this most

charming lady upon her round of Christian kindness and

pity.

 

It is wise in this world to cultivate a reputation for

philanthropy, though like the priestly dress it may be a

mere sanctity of the surface. Few people are honest

enough to be open egotists, and to attain our ends it is

necessary to skilfully bribe our neighbors’ prejudices.

Though self-interest is the motive power that keeps the

world from flagging, it is neither discreet nor cultured to

blatantly acknowledge such a truth, for without a certain

measure of hypocrisy life would be a sorry scramble. That

man should be taught to love his neighbor as himself is

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