Jim Mortimer

Cover art

JIM MORTIMER

BY

WARREN BELL

AUTHOR OF "J. O. JONES," "TALES OF GREYHOUSE," ETC.

WITH SIXTEEN FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
BY GORDON BROWNE

LONDON
ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK
1908

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

1. [Introducing Jim]
2. [Over the Telephone]
3. [Koko Reports Progress]
4. [A Handmaid to Mercury]
5. [Jim Rejoices]
6. [The Doctor Keeps His Word]
7. [Sir Savile's Offer]
8. [Number Nine]
9. [In the Pillory]
10. [At the Surgery]
11. [Mr Maybury's Resolve]
12. [Koko's Word]
13. ["Harris & Father"]
14. [A Piece of News]
15. [Koko is Thanked]
16. [Jim's Patients]
17. [In the Crescent]
18. [Master Harris is Shown Out]
19. [Hard Pressed]
20. [After the Play]
21. [A Matter of Wages]
22. [The Warning]
23. [The Ivory Fan]
24. [Jim Catches a Train]
25. [In the Silent House]
26. [The Vultures]
27. [The Home-Coming]
28. [A Delicate Mission]
29. [The Doctor Visits Mount Street]
30. [The Week Passes]
31. [In which it is shown that the Bearded Man had made Another Mistake]
32. [In which Two People set out upon a Journey]

JIM MORTIMER.

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.

CHAPTER II.

OVER THE TELEPHONE.

Old Dr Mortimer was, in every sense of the word, a hard man. Of massive build and handsome countenance, upright and commanding in presence, with a clear brain, a will of iron, and a resonant, penetrating voice, his was at once a dominating and notable personality.

Dr Mortimer's sphere of action, it is true, was limited and local; but if, by the accident of circumstances, his lot had been cast in a military or political arena, he would assuredly have risen to a high place, and possibly cut his initials on the rock of fame.

Beginning on nothing, the Doctor had fought his way up to his present position by dint of sheer perseverance and strength of head. His indomitable will had cleared away all obstacles, and now he was seventy, hale and hearty, a man of wealth and a county magnate.

But Dame Fortune, while she gives with one hand, takes away with the other. The Doctor was now childless, and grandchildless, too, save for James. This man of iron had brought weaklings into the world; his wife had died before she was thirty, and as his riches increased, his brood had one by one faded into the grave. So now, when James--the only son of his eldest son--was in London, Dr Mortimer sat at his mahogany every night all alone--proud, rich, powerful, feared, obeyed on the instant--but alone.

His assistant, M'Pherson, a trustworthy, middle-aged Scotsman, of no especial brilliance, but conscientious to a hair, lived at the asylum and took most of his meals with the patients.

The Doctor had made his will years since, and James was absolutely heir to all he had, save for trifling legacies to his executors and such persons as Hughes, his cook, coachman, and gardeners. Every stick and stone was to be Jim's, and Jim knew it.

But the Doctor was not satisfied with his grandson. Throughout Jim's five years at Rugby the general tenor of his reports had been: "Has done well on the whole, but might have done much better." His hospital career had been of a very similar character. Jim, though of a lazy temperament, had, nevertheless, won warm encomiums from great surgeons for his skill with the knife. Sir Savile Smart, the renowned specialist in abdominal matters, had written to Dr Mortimer--who was an old friend of his--in high praise of Jim. But there, as ever, was the qualifying clause: "Your lad can do wonders when he likes, which isn't always." And then again Jim was given to bursts of rowdyism, accounts of which had trickled down to Threeways, where Jim was regarded as a lovable, harum-scarum youth, who would come into all the Doctor's money, "and so it would be all right." This meant that his wild ways didn't matter--he would never have to earn his living. Besides, he was only a youngster--he would sober down in time. He wouldn't go on fighting policemen all his life--"and so it would be all right."

At dinner on the preceding evening the Doctor, warmed by the generous grape, had been in an affable, not to say confiding mood, and it would have been well for Jim had this been their final conversation ere he departed for town, for the Doctor was in a high good-humour when they lit their bedroom candles, and even went so far as to pat his grandson on the back in a manner that was quite affectionate.

Jim guessed that this amiable frame of mind would decamp with the darkness, and his surmise proved correct, for when he got to the telephone and took the receiver off its peg, he knew by the sound of the Doctor's voice that his grandfather was in an irritable mood.

"Are you there, James?"

"Yes, sir."

"My carriage is waiting, and I must be off in a minute or two, but I want to have a word with you before you go."

"Shall I come across?" suggested Jim,

"No, that will waste time, and I haven't much to say."

It occurred to the Long 'Un that what little his grandfather wished to say would not be of an overwhelmingly genial character.

"I--ah--I received a bill this morning for a plate-glass window you smashed in the Strand about six weeks ago," began the Doctor; "I suppose you recollect it?"

"Seem to remember something of it," replied Jim.

"That's good of you. The bill is for twelve pounds."

"Those big shop windows run into money," hazarded Jim.

"Somewhat superfluous information," snapped the Doctor; "what I want to say is that I won't pay any more of these bills--do you clearly understand?"

"I do," said the Long 'Un.

"And, moreover, I won't have any more of your drunken frolics--it's high time you stopped all that nonsense. I should also advise you to drop the acquaintance of that disreputable reporter friend of yours--he seems to have a bad influence on you--Coke, is that his name?"

Jim chuckled.

"What--Koko? Most harmless man on earth! Gets me out of scrapes, not into them!"

A fresh grievance now occurred to the Doctor. "I am not at all satisfied with the way you are working," he said.

"We dig in pretty hard at Matt's," replied Jim, quite truthfully.

"Yes--but how about your degree? I expect more than a mere qualification from you."

"I'll read like a nigger this time, grandfather----"

"I'm glad to hear you say so," interrupted the Doctor, in a mollified tone.

"Time and weather permitting," concluded Jim, indiscreetly.

A short, ill-tempered cough sounded through the telephone. The Doctor was preparing his ultimatum; Jim's addendum gave him his cue.

"I suppose 'time and weather' mean such dissolute companions as Coker, or whatever his absurd name is. Well, now, attend to me, James. I'm not squeamish, but I expect you to pull up. I won't have any more playing the fool, either at the hospital or down here. For instance," he added, with growing ire, "what on earth d'you mean by masquerading about the high road in a dressing-gown?"

"I prefer ease to elegance," said Jim, cheekily.

"Well, sir," shouted the Doctor across the vibrating wire, "I don't intend that my grandson shall be taken for one of my patients!"

"Why--who took me for one of them?" demanded Jim in amazement.

"The Countess of Lingfield."

"The who?" exclaimed Jim.

"The Countess of Lingfield. She spoke to you from her carriage half an hour ago."

"By George!" Jim broke into a mellow laugh. "Was that a countess? I say, grandfather, who was the pretty girl with her?"

"Her daughter," replied the Doctor; "and it was she who observed that you were probably one of the 'harmless variety'!"

"Indeed!" said the Long 'Un, not quite so heartily.

"Yes, sir," proceeded the Doctor, his ire rising again, "and I was placed under the ignominious necessity of having to admit that you were my grandson."

"Awfully rough on you, grandpa."

The Doctor was evidently fuming at the other end of the telephone.

"So," was his next utterance, "I shall be obliged if you will behave more like a reasonable being in future. No more window-smashing, no more fighting with policemen, and no more drinking. I give you fair warning that if you cut any more capers, I'll stop supplies, and you'll have to get on as best you can by yourself. Good-bye!"

"Half a moment, sir! I should like to see you again before I go."

"I can't wait."

"Can't you spare a minute, sir?"

"No--I've wasted too much time already talking to you. Now remember! Any more nonsense, and you shan't handle another penny of mine. Good-bye!"

Jim let the receiver go with a bang, and a few moments later was flying across the road, his dressing-gown waving gracefully behind him. But he was too late. He arrived at "Pangora" just in time to see the carriage vanishing through the gates of the drive leading to a by-road on the opposite side of the house.

CHAPTER III.

KOKO REPORTS PROGRESS.

Mr Mortimer was seated at breakfast. His rooms were situated in a terrace leading out of a fashionable thoroughfare in Pimlico, but the terrace itself was not at all fashionable, consisting, as it did, chiefly of lodging-houses resorted to by medical students, clerks, actors, and ladies' maids and men-servants out of places. The keeper of the house was a burly, strident-voiced, strong-willed lady of forty, rough but not unkindly, who always gave Jim what she liked (as opposed to what he liked) for breakfast.

This morning--the morning after his arrival in town from Eastfolkshire--his first meal was composed of cold eggs-and-bacon and cold tea--not a deliriously appetising repast, 'tis true; but then, if a man is summoned to breakfast at nine and eventually crawls into his sitting-room at a quarter past ten, what can he expect? And Mrs Freeman was not the sort of lady to keep anything warm for lie-abed lodgers.

Having nibbled half a cold egg, Mortimer turned his attention to the loaf, and eventually breakfasted off bread and marmalade. The butter he eschewed, as it appeared to claim first cousinship with train-oil. As the tea was by this time black, and bitter to the taste, Jim sought to appease his thirst with a bottle of beer from the rickety sideboard. The cork of the bottle being in a state of crumbling decrepitude, Mortimer had to delay his drink while, with the help of a spoon and some expletives, he fished the broken fragments out of the beer.

"A picture," observed a quiet voice, while Jim was thus engaged, "calculated to melt the heart of any maid."

"Hullo--Koko!"

"While I object to that nickname," gravely responded the little man who had entered, as he removed his hat and displayed an almost entirely bald head, "I am compelled to reply to it. Well, how are you, young feller?"

Jim replied in a testy murmur that he felt all right, and proceeded to drag more fragments of cork out of the beer. Meanwhile, the man who had come in laid his hat, gloves, and stick on the far end of the table, and then arranged his tie in front of the mirror over the mantelpiece.

"Doocid dude you are, Koko!" said Jim, looking at his friend over the edge of the glass; "why," springing up, "you've grown!"

Now, as the caller was but an inch or two over five feet in height, there was every reason why he should have felt congratulated by this remark.

"No," he said, in a resigned voice, "I haven't grown--I've only got some of my fat off."

As Jim towered high above his friend--his height, if anything, accentuated by the clinging folds of his dressing-gown--the little man gazed admiringly up at the Long 'Un, and deep down in his heart perhaps, heaved a little sigh because of his own smallness. For, alas! Koko had finished growing. He was thirty, and already bald; he was years older than Jim--so was it likely he would grow now? And this was why, and quite naturally, George Somers, reporter on a sporting newspaper--this little, bald, quiet, unassuming man--had come, at first, to notice Jim Mortimer, and afterwards, when they got to know one another, to like him, and, finally, when they became close friends, to give him his whole heart in that sterling regard which men sometimes have for men, when each is sure that the other is worthy of such unflinching esteem.

Koko was neat and dapper in his dress, with nothing awry about him. He was excellently and attractively tidy, with the tidiness that little people have. So well proportioned was he, that his small stature never seemed ridiculous, even when viewed in close juxtaposition to the Long 'Un's great length. Koko was, in countenance, well favoured, with a small, neatly trimmed dark moustache, and rather large, mild eyes. Though generally impassive, his face would at times light up with a wonderful, sudden smile--a smile that it did you good to look upon, a smile that told you that Koko's nature was all gold.

And Koko, you must know, had for some years been inspired with the feeling that it was his particular mission in this world to look after the Long 'Un. Though he had many other duties, and one other hobby, he always found time to keep an almost maternal eye on Jim Mortimer.

"By the way, old boy," said Koko, after a time, "have you unpacked?"

"Only my pyjamas and dressing-gown," said Jim.

"Shall I lend you a hand?"

Mortimer gave a deep laugh.

"Anybody would think I was a blooming kid, Koko, by the way you talk," he said.

"So you are," said Koko, as he made his way to the adjoining bedroom, "in a great many things."

In a leisurely manner the Long 'Un followed after his friend, who was already bending over the unstrapped portmanteau. Mortimer was in a lazy mood, the beer he had consumed having filled him with a feeling of lethargy. Sitting on the end of his bed, he smoked and watched Koko as the latter endeavoured to find his way through the hurly-burly before him--as he took the socks out of the boots in which it was the Long 'Un's custom to pack them, rescued a tin of tooth-powder from the toe of a dancing pump--wherein it had been wedged to ensure safe travelling--fished a razor and shaving-brush out of the sponge-bag, and a sixpenny popular novel from the folds of a fancy waistcoat, put everything into its proper place in the chest of drawers or wardrobe, and at length paused, his task accomplished, in a somewhat flushed and heated condition.

"First-rate valet you'd make, Koko," said the Long 'Un, ungratefully.

Koko, without replying, pushed the empty portmanteau under the bed, and then washed his hands.

"I must be off now," he said simply.

"Oh, hang on a bit," returned Mortimer, as they went back to the sitting-room.

"Must go," said Koko, smoothing his silk hat with his coat sleeve--"work."

"Where?"

"Billiards in the afternoon, fight in the evening."

And with that he quietly departed.

Nobody would have dreamed that this quiet little man with the bald head had attended and described in nimble boxing terminology some of the fiercest combats that have ever been held at the National Milling Club; nobody would have dreamed that the Mr George Somers, whose hobby was the collecting of old, worm-eaten volumes, and whose initials, "G.S.," were so familiar to the readers of the Book Hunter, was a well-known figure in swimming-baths, gymnasiums, billiard saloons, football, and cricket grounds the country over, gun clubs, lacrosse clubs, tennis clubs, and weight-lifting clubs. Yet the little man who nosed round bookstalls in Holywell Street (that was), Wych Street (that was), and St Martin's Lane (that is), in search of rare first editions, was identical with the little man who accompanied Jim on many of his freebooting expeditions "up west," and with the little man who attended sporting functions of every kind all the year round, rain or shine, in the proud capacity of the Sporting Mail's "special representative."

When Koko, some hours later, on his return from the billiard match, again looked in on the Long 'Un, he found Mr Mortimer still in his dressing-gown lolling over a book. The table bore the débris of Jim's lunch.

As Koko entered the room, Mortimer threw away his book and yawned sluggishly. Koko walked gently up to him, and stood by the arm of his chair.

"I've got a bit of news for you, Jim."

"Go ahead with it."

"I've found out who that girl is."

"What?"

The Long 'Un was out of his chair in a second, all life and fire and eagerness; the transformation was complete.

Koko laughed inwardly; he never laughed out loud.

"Yes, I've found out about her. She's one of the girls at the Milverton Street post-office--she's the girl that takes in the telegrams."

"Are you sure?" exclaimed Jim.

"Certain," said Koko, selecting a cigarette from his little silver case.

Mortimer was struck dumb with delight. For, ever since Koko and he, whilst taking tea at an ABC shop near St Matthew's Hospital, had on three successive occasions observed an extremely handsome girl at a neighbouring table, the Long 'Un had been burning to know the young lady. That was before he went home for a month's vacation. It would appear that Koko, faithful as ever to his friend's interests, had not been idle during that month.

"Come on," exclaimed Jim, "let's go and send off some telegrams. She'll at least be obliged to look at us. That'll be something, won't it?"

"Yes, that'll be something," said Koko; "all right, go and get dressed."

The Long 'Un disappeared into the bedroom, and presently emerged in proper attire.

"You'd better wear your tail coat and top-hat, or I may cut you out," suggested Koko.

With a bellow of laughter, the Long 'Un hurried into his bedroom again, issuing therefrom a minute later clad in the kind of coat and the kind of hat affected by Koko.

"Now," said Koko, as they left Jim's sitting-room, "we start level."

CHAPTER IV.

A HANDMAID TO MERCURY.

Mortimer was in such haste to reach Milverton Street, that it was all Koko could do, with his short legs, to keep pace with him.

"I shall send one to myself to start with," explained Jim, "and then I shall go in at intervals and send wires to you, and the fellows at the hospital."

"Won't you find it rather expensive?"

"My boy, what is money for?" exclaimed the Long 'Un with enthusiasm. "Could I employ it better than in----"

"Yes, a good deal better," retorted Koko; "couldn't you go in and buy halfpenny stamps, and just glance over in her direction?"

"The stamp girl wouldn't like that," returned Mortimer with frank vanity; "but, I say, old man, isn't all this reckoning up of the cost rather sordid?"

"Well, perhaps it is," agreed Koko; "but apart from that, I don't quite see how you can effect anything. She doesn't look the sort of girl you can even discuss the weather with, unless you have been properly introduced to her."

"Never mind that for the present," said Jim. "Try and suggest a suitable telegram for me to send to myself."

"Do you wish to impress her with the fact that you have means?"

"Just as well," said Jim; "I shall have a tidy amount some day, you know."

"Then wire and tell me to put a pot of money for you on a horse."

"And then?"

"Make the next something about shares--'Buy me ten thousand Canadian Pacifics,' let us say."

"Well, and what's the third wire to be about? I can't put money on gees or buy shares every time."

"Make her jealous. Send a wire to 'Maggie Mortimer' at your Pimlico address, and put 'Best love, darling,' at the end of it," suggested Koko, demurely.

The Long 'Un stopped dead, and faced round on his small companion.

"Look here, Koko," he exclaimed, "I've taken your advice in several--er--affairs of this sort, and they've all turned out badly."

"In each case it was your own fault," said Koko.

"In each case you really managed the business, and it came to nothing. The fact is, you don't know anything about women. You may be all very well at a trotting match----"

"All right," said Koko, shortly, as he turned on his heel, "you can manage this by yourself."

"I apologise," cried Jim.

"In that case," said Koko, relenting, "I'll come. But I don't want you to round on me if it's a failure."

"I promise I won't," the Long 'Un declared, and so once more Koko stretched his short legs to the utmost in order to keep in step with Jim.

Miss Dora Maybury was quite one of the handsomest girls that ever obtained employment--by competitive examination--in the London Post-Office. It was, therefore, not at all surprising that the susceptible Jim Mortimer should have been so affected by her beauty. Dora's hair was chestnut brown; the dreamy depths of her dark eyes were fringed o'er with long lashes, from beneath whose graceful shadow she gazed upon the world with an expression that was at once distracting and unconsciously coquettish; her lips closed in exquisite lines upon teeth that were as white as you could wish them to be; and the whole form of her face--from forehead to chin--was such as the most censorious judge of a human countenance would not have desired to be other than what it was. Dora was tall, too, and of graceful figure--in brief, she was as comely a maid as you could well behold in a year's journeying.

It sometimes occurs that a girl brought up in luxury finds herself suddenly plunged into genteel poverty. Such was the case with Dora. Not so very long since she had lived in a great house, and ridden in carriages; then Fortune, in a sudden freak of fancy, had turned her back upon her, and, as if by a sweep of a fairy's wand, the mansion had changed to much humbler quarters in London, and the carriages into penny and halfpenny omnibuses.

It was natural that the unusually prepossessing girl behind the counter of the post-office in Milverton Street should attract a good deal of attention. Those who had occasion to send away telegrams pretty often--busy, preoccupied men though most of them were--soon came to notice this particular clerk's refined voice and manner. She had not been engaged in post-office work long enough to have acquired the slap-dash, curt style of the lady-clerk who has sat at the telegraphic seat of custom for several years; she was still sufficiently of an amateur, indeed, to display some human interest in many of the messages which were handed in to her. Not that a telegraph clerk is supposed to do this; but Dora could not forbear a smile when she was counting the many words of a wire from a love-sick swain to his lady-love, nor could she feel quite indifferent when a telegram bearing the direst ill-news--news of grave illness or even death--passed through her hands.

But we do not wish to have it supposed that we are holding up Dora Maybury as an angel of pity--or, indeed, as a perfect character in any sense. When business was slack, and Dora had time to think about herself, a pettish and discontented expression might often have been observed to flit across her pretty face. As a post-office clerk, Dora felt that she was not filling her proper niche in the world--and probably a good many other people thought so too.

There were five other girls behind the counter of the Milverton Street post-office, in addition to telegraphists in the room above, several male clerks, and a small gang of telegraph boys. Dora's great friend among the other girls was Rose Cook, a fat, good-natured, sentimental creature, who was at present desperately in love with a gentleman she had met at a dance--a Mr Somers, who wrote for the newspapers. Mr Somers was a friend of some friends of Miss Cook's, and that was how she had come to meet him, and to hear of his very tall friend, Mr Mortimer. But it should be added that Mr Somers had seen very little of Miss Cook, had no idea of the passion that consumed her, and was certainly wholly ignorant of the fact that she was employed in the Milverton Street post-office. He had only been in this particular post-office once in his life, and then he had had eyes for none save the young lady who took in the telegrams.

Now, earlier in this very day that witnessed the journey of the Long 'Un and Koko to Milverton Street, Miss Cook had been bemoaning the fact that "Mr Somers" had actually been in the post-office a few days previously, and had not so much as glanced at her.

"He was looking at you--they all do!" she had exclaimed, while discussing the matter at lunch with Dora.

Dora made no reply, but she was thinking over Miss Cook's complimentary complaint later that day, when a very tall man entered the post-office and proceeded to one of the compartments where telegram forms and pointless pencils attached to pieces of string were supplied for the convenience of the public.

Dora noticed that the tall man occasionally glanced towards the door, and presently began to beckon to somebody who was presumably standing in the doorway. After a time the person beckoned to entered the post-office, and, as he did so, Miss Cook, who was sitting next to Dora, gave vent to a little gasp.

"What's the matter, dear?" inquired Dora.

"That--that's--Mr Somers!" exclaimed Miss Cook.

"And who is the other?" asked Dora, who was not greatly impressed by Mr Somers's appearance.

"That must be his friend, Mr Mortimer."

Quite unconscious of the fact that their identity was no secret in the post-office, the Long 'Un and Koko proceeded to compile telegrams.

"What a lot of forms Mr Mortimer is tearing up!" whispered Dora to her friend.

"Evidently sending a telegram to a girl," replied Miss Cook, who was still looking agitated, and whose thoughts were naturally trending in a sentimental direction.

Dora smiled. The sight of Koko standing on tip-toe, and craning his head over the Long 'Un's arm, was certainly smile-inspiring. So Dora smiled.

Presently Mortimer withdrew his head and shoulders from the compartment, and turned towards the counter. It should be added that the various communications suggested by Koko had all been condemned as worthless by the Long 'Un, who, with some pains, had finally evolved the following bald and uninspiring message: "Annie arrives nine to-night. Please meet. Jim."

Koko turned towards the counter at the same time as Jim, and as he did so his face underwent a striking change. For there, gazing ardently upon him, sat Miss Rose Cook. In a flash Koko took in the situation, and saw that here was Jim's chance. He could introduce Jim straight away.

It was too late to stop Jim from sending the telegram, for he was already handing in the message and gazing with undisguised admiration at Miss Maybury. And as Miss Maybury bent her beautiful head over the form, and with a swiftly moving--far too swiftly moving--pencil, proceeded to count the words thereon, Jim's heart thumped wildly against his ribs, Jim's brain seemed to reel, and Jim fell head over ears--hopelessly, irretrievably---IN LOVE.

CHAPTER V.

JIM REJOICES.

Five minutes later Jim Mortimer was sailing down Milverton Street in a state of mild delirium. Instead of having to wait for months for an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the girl whose face had so captivated his fancy, the whole thing had been accomplished in a briefer time than it takes to write of it.

Koko it was who had effected this desirable consummation--Koko who had offered up himself on the altar of friendship. Koko saw as plain as daylight that Miss Cook was exceedingly pleased to see him, and knew that the introduction he contemplated would result in his having to meet with undesirable frequency a lady in whom he took no interest whatever. A few words of greeting were exchanged; then Miss Cook--who had an axe of her own to grind--introduced him to Miss Maybury, and then, as a matter of course, Koko made Mortimer known to the two girls.

Dora Maybury! So that was her name! What a sweet name! Dora! The Long 'Un dwelt lovingly on those two dear syllables.

He proceeded to murmur the name in an abstracted manner until they reached St Matthew's Hospital. Here Jim's hosts of friends greeted him in the heartiest fashion, and bottled beer flowed freely in the students' common-room. Koko knew many of Jim's friends, and always enjoyed himself when in the company of the light-hearted happy-go-lucky crew at "Matt's." Jim sat down and rattled off a comic song on a piano which, by reason of much hard usage, had long since lost its purity of tone. Jim played cleverly by ear; and, as he could sing songs by the score, he was consequently the star artiste of "Matt's."

"Chorus, boys!" he roared, and the boys, forming up in a line behind a red-haired youth from Wales--with a voice worthy of his nationality--pranced round the table as they let go the taking refrain at the top of their voices:--

Oh, follow the man from Cook's!

The wonderful man from Cook's!

And, whether your stay be short or long,

You'll see the sights, for he can't go wrong.

Oh, follow the man from Cook's!

The wonderful man from Cook's!

For it's twenty to one that there's plenty of fun,

If you follow the man from Cook's!

The last words of the chorus were ringing out into the quadrangle, when a porter entered the room and informed the pianist that a lady wished to see him.

"Lady!" exclaimed Jim.

"Yes, sir; wishes to see you very particular."

"Go on, Long 'Un!" yelled the students, "next verse."

But Jim's head was filled with romantic ideas. What if, for some strange, inexplicable reason, it should happen to be Dora! True, it was not very likely, but he had read in books of things like this happening.

"Half a second, you men," he said; "I've got to see somebody."

"Girl?" queried the red-haired youth from Wales.

But Jim (hoping it was) hurried out without replying to him. He found his fair visitor to be no other than Mrs Freeman, his landlady.

"Mr Mortimer, sir," she said, in some agitation, "this came for you just now, sir. I hope it's not bad news, sir."

For in the homely eyes of the landlady a telegram generally loomed large as a portent of ill. Jim opened the flimsy envelope, and read:

"Annie arrives nine to-night. Please meet. Jim."

Until this moment he had forgotten all about the wire he had sent himself. Now it had reached him in all its imbecile meaninglessness.

Mrs Freeman regarded his face anxiously.

"Not bad news, I 'ope, sir?"

Jim crushed the thing into his pocket somewhat impatiently.

"No; it's all right, thanks, Mrs Freeman. It's--it's nothing. Thanks for bringing it."

And so Mrs Freeman had to retrace her steps to Pimlico, feeling (it must be confessed) somewhat disappointed at the non-tragic contents of the message she had so carefully conveyed to the hospital.

Jim imbibed more beer and sang more songs, and finally, when the party broke up, dragged Koko off to dine at the Trocadero. All through the meal Jim was excessively merry, his bursts of laughter causing many of the diners to glance curiously in his direction. Koko, knowing by long experience that he could do nothing to stem Jim's methods of letting off steam, decided that his place to-night must be by Mortimer's side; so he hastily scribbled a note asking a colleague to report the fight at the National Milling Club for which he (Koko) had been booked, and despatched it to the Sporting Mail office by a special messenger. Koko felt easier in his mind when he had done this; he saw that Jim intended to make a night of it, and that his programme would be a variegated one.

Dinner over, the Long 'Un hailed a hansom, and, Koko having stowed himself away inside, took his place with a brief "Exhibition!" to the driver.

"Dora!" breathed Jim, as the cab sped across the Circus and headed for Piccadilly.

"I expect she likes nice, quiet men," said Koko.

"Not she," returned Jim with conviction.

"A nice, quiet, home-loving man--not a man who shouts, and swears, and behaves like an over-grown schoolboy," persisted Mr George Somers.

"You're very severe to-night, my bald-headed young friend," quoth the Long 'Un, with supreme good-humour.

"Never mind about my head," said Koko; "think what yours will be like in the morning."

"But it is to-night!" cried the Long 'Un, "it is to-night, and I mean to go the whole hog. Let the morning take care of itself. It is to-night; I have seen her; I know her; and now I am enjoying myself very much."

"You are also," added Koko, "on the verge of intoxication."

"Very near the verge," whooped the Long 'Un.

The cab was approaching Hyde Park Corner when Jim raised the little trap-door above his head.

"I've changed my mind, cabby; drive back to the Empire."

"Empire? Yessir!"

"You'll be chucked out of there to a certainty," said Koko, despairingly.

"Not me," said Jim.

But at the music-hall Mortimer was politely refused admittance by a man as tall as himself, and considerably broader.

"No, sir; you gave us trouble the last time you were here. I haven't forgotten you, sir."

"But that was Boat Race night," protested Jim.

"No matter, sir; can't let you in."

And the official squared his great shoulders and glanced at another official, almost as big as himself, who was standing a few yards away. Simultaneously Koko gave Jim's sleeve a tug.

"Come on," he said; "no good getting into a row."

Reluctantly Jim turned on his heel; he was in a mood for battle, and he had an idea that, big as the official was, he (Jim) could have rendered a pretty good account of himself had it come to a scrap.

The cab they had employed was lingering in the vicinity of the entrance. Jim hailed it and again gave the order "Exhibition." And in the course of thirty minutes or so, Koko and he found themselves passing through the turnstiles at that popular resort.

Very pleasant it was, too, sauntering through the bazaars and make-believe old streets, and round the band-stands, while eye and ear were charmed with colour and music respectively, and the promenading multitude laughed and chattered, forgetting the day's cares in a spell of enjoyable indolence.

But Jim was bent on celebrating the great event of the day--his introduction to Miss Maybury. He was desirous of applying more rebellious liquor to his young blood, and intimated the fact to a little Swiss waiter.

"Dora!" Jim gave the toast and drained his glass at a gulp. Up came Carlo again with a smile of appreciation. "As before," said Jim, and again toasted Dora.

Just then a pale, well-dressed young man, passing by in the company of two ladies, trod on Jim's outstretched foot. Jim gave vent to an exclamation, but the doer of the harm simply glanced over his shoulder without vouchsafing an apology.

"Why don't you look after your feet, sir!" cried Jim, angrily. To do him justice, he did not notice the presence of the ladies.

The perambulating crowd was thick just there, and the proprietor of the feet alluded to was brought to a standstill close to Jim by people coming in the opposite direction.

"It is never nice here," he observed to one of his companions in a tone evidently intended to reach Jim's ears, "on early closing nights."

For all Jim knew, the man who had trodden on his toes was making this remark to another man, but Koko had noticed the ladies, and now perceived that while one of them was regarding Jim with haughty disfavour, the other kept her face turned resolutely towards the bandstand.

"I'll show you what sort of a shop-boy I am!" exclaimed Jim, in a fury, and was jumping up when his leg got into difficulties with the little round table at which he was sitting, the result being that he fell over and broke the back of the chair he was occupying. In his struggle to retain his balance he swept the glasses off the table and smashed them, and, when the little Swiss waiter requested payment for the goods, rudely declined to give any compensation.

When the waiter beckoned to a policeman, men sitting at neighbouring tables rose to their feet, evidently expecting trouble. People in the vicinity stopped promenading, in order to look on. They talked about what followed for days afterwards.

The constable was not one of the gentlest of his species. He asked Jim for his name and address, and Jim produced his card; then the policeman told him he must leave the Exhibition, and, as Jim appeared reluctant to obey this order, gave him a push in the direction of the nearest exit.

Now, the policeman, regarding Jim's long, slim form, had not anticipated much trouble from this customer. How was he to know that Mr James Mortimer (that being the name on the card) had a marvellous way of hitting straight from the shoulder? Rough and unscientific he might be, but his blows came pat like a donkey's kicks, and hurt almost as much.

When the policeman had picked himself up and blown his whistle, the bystanders fairly tingled with excitement. They saw a little man urging the tall one to submit quietly, and they saw the tall man shake off the little man as one would brush away a fly. The tall man's hat had fallen off, and the little man was holding it. The tall man was a good-looking fellow, the bystanders remarked, and as he drew himself up, and glared defiance at the approaching enemy, he reminded certain spectators of some heroic subject in sculpture or painting. Of course, this was because they were inclined to be romantic. The bulk of those present saw in Jim merely a young man the worse for drink and spoiling for a fight.

A burly sergeant strode up.

"Now, then, none of this nonsense," he said roughly.

Crack! That peculiar straight left met him on the jaw, and the sergeant collapsed on to the gravel. Two more policemen rushed at Jim. Again the long arms shot out. One policeman fell, and the other staggered. Jim followed the latter up and delivered the coup de grâce. At that moment Jim felt a muscular hand gripping his neck. He lashed round furiously, then closed with his antagonist, and they fell among the chairs. Jim was on top, and wrenched himself free as a fifth policeman charged at him. A bit of a boxer was this man, young and active, and Jim and he hammered each other with the lustiness of schoolboys. Up and down among the chairs they went, and then Jim, seeing an opening, got home on the point, and turned swiftly to receive the sixth policeman, an enormous fellow who was unfortunately given to over-much beer. He hit Jim on the chest, and Jim gasped; then he hit at Jim again, and Jim, dodging the blow, retaliated with a sledge-hammer slap across the back of the big man's neck. The big man clutched at a table, and Jim hit him in the spine and upset man and table. Then three policemen, sore and furious, rushed at Jim together, and there was Jim's close-clipped poll towering above them, and there were Jim's long arms dealing out donkey kicks, and leaving marks every time. And then Jim retired in good order, face and fists to the foe, towards the buffet, and then, suddenly altering his tactics, he put his head down and butted the middle man of the trio in the stomach, and so made his way through them, and ran into the burly sergeant, who hit at Jim with his truncheon, but missed him, and got a crashing blow in the mouth by way of exchange. And that was Jim's last good donkey kick, for one of them got him by the leg, another hit him over the hip with his truncheon, and next moment Jim was rolling about the gravel with four of them clinging to him. And, of course, he at length surrendered, and was marched off between two of the policemen to the police-station, the faithful Koko following a few yards behind to bail him out.

CHAPTER VI.

THE DOCTOR KEEPS HIS WORD.

The whole fight did not last two minutes. It was short, sharp, and, to sport-loving members of the crowd, very sweet. Certain pugilistic souls among the visitors to the Exhibition went home that night and dreamt about it. Many of the women, it is true, shuddered, and clutched convulsively at the arms of their male companions as Jim's mighty hits went home and the policemen, by turn, bit the dust of the promenading ground, but quite a number watched the combat with bright, marvelling eyes, and lips parted half in admiration and half in horror.

For Jim looked very handsome and terrible in his fighting wrath. One old gentleman who had come from his club dinner in evening dress to listen to the band, returned to St James's Street chuckling with delight. Numbers of times he repeated to himself, "A bonny lad--a bonny lad!" and actually, instead of going home and to bed at a respectable hour, as an old gentleman of his years and gouty tendencies should have done, fought the battle over again at great length for the benefit of some other old club fogies, and finally had to be helped into a cab--at 2 A.M.--still chuckling with wicked joy.

It was, of course, a tremendous output of nervous energy--accentuated by the spirits he had imbibed--on Jim's part. It was a supreme effort, and died out suddenly. That smash over the hip--a policeman's favourite aiming-point--from the truncheon numbed him strangely, and when he fell, his capture was an easy matter. There was no more fight left in him when they led him off--he would have gone with entire docility, indeed, without a hand being laid on him.

Arrived at the police-station, he was conducted into the charge-room and placed in the narrow little dock facing the inspector's desk. The inspector, a quiet-looking man, glanced up in a casual fashion and then proceeded with the writing on which he was employed when they entered. This done, he inquired what the charge was, and, on being informed of its nature in the curt, unadorned phraseology of the man in blue, entered the particulars on a charge-sheet that lay before him, and finally allowed Koko to bail his friend out for £2.

Those who had witnessed the conflict would have been astonished by the inspector's imperturbable, cool tone, as he asked his brief questions. It was regarded as a matter-of-course case--youthful "medical "--too much to drink--dispute with waiter--resisted police. All very ordinary--very matter-of-course--nothing out of the way. The inspector even said "Good-night, sir," as Jim left the charge-room with Koko; previously the inspector had gazed at the ceiling as Jim presented a sovereign to his two custodians, who also bade him a "Good-night, sir," in a manner which showed that they bore him not the slightest ill-will on account of the hard usage they had received at his hands.

On the following day, Jim and Koko attended at the police-court and hung about in a fusty corridor for two hours before the name "Mortimer" was sharply called, and Jim, frock-coated, neatly gloved, and with a new hat in his hand, walked into the dock. Then the sergeant who had taken part in the fracas told his tale in the same unadorned manner of speech that his subordinate had used on the previous night.

"Anything to say?" inquired the magistrate, glancing at Jim.

"Nothing, your worship," replied Jim, who had been previously warned by Koko that "the less said the better" was a golden maxim to adopt on an occasion like the present.

"I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY, YOUR WORSHIP."

The magistrate, who for two hours had been hearing the usual sordid charges--most of them associated with petty thefts and drunkenness--had been somewhat interested by the sergeant's account of what Jim had done. Now, as he looked at Jim's tall, lithe form, and fair, open countenance, and noted Jim's gentlemanly bearing, he decided to give the young fellow a seasonable word of advice.

"I am sorry to see you here, Mortimer," he said, "because a man of your position, by acting as you have done, not only sets a bad example, but runs the risk of imperilling the success of his future career. You have rendered yourself liable to a term of imprisonment, and you know well that if I were to inflict such a punishment on you the fact would act as a serious obstacle to you hereafter, as you would not be allowed to fill any responsible medical post were it known that you had been in prison. It appears from the evidence that you were the worse for drink at the time you resisted the police. I need hardly remind you of the view the public take of a medical man who gives way to such habits. It means, in the long run, utter ruin to him. As I said before, I should be acting within my rights by sending you to prison, but as I understand that after you had been taken into custody you gave the police no further trouble, I shall only inflict a fine upon you. You will pay forty shillings--and take care I don't see you here again."

Jim bowed. "I am greatly obliged to your worship," he said. Then, at a sign from a policeman stationed near by, he quitted the dock, and, having paid his fine, joined Koko in the corridor.

They lose no time in London police-courts. Hardly had Jim left the dock than the name of "Hodgkins" was uttered by the magistrate's clerk, repeated by the sergeant, bawled down the corridor by the constable at the door, and echoed by other policemen lounging in the outer precincts of the court.

"Hodgkins!"

"Hodgkins!"

"HODGKINS!"

As Jim joined Koko, a blear-eyed, decrepit old dame brushed past him at a rapid hobble. She had to answer a summons for assaulting a neighbour by striking her over the head with a fire-shovel. This, in fact, was "Hodgkins."

As Jim glanced at the old creature he realised that this quarrelsome, ill-favoured hag and he were companions in distress--united by a law-breaking bond! He, inflamed by whisky, had fought six policemen; she, supping cheap gin, had burst into a senile frenzy and set upon some other hag with her claw-like nails and the weapon that came first to hand. The same law applied to both of them--she, a rag-picker, and he, the heir to a bountiful fortune and many smiling acres in Eastfolkshire.

"Pah!" he exclaimed, as he hastened to reach cleaner air, "let's get out of this! Thank goodness that's over!"

"No harm done," said Koko, cheerily. "I know the two men in the reporters' box, and they both promised not to write a word about you."

"By George! that's jolly of them!" exclaimed the Long 'Un. "My grand-guv'nor won't get to hear of it after all, then."

"It would have made a tasty little par," said Koko, with a pressman's instinctive knowledge of what newspapers like.

"It would," said Jim. "I can imagine how it would have read."

"But they won't write a word. They're good sorts," said Koko.

And so the Long 'Un made his way back to Matt's, lighter, it is true, of purse, but very much lighter of heart as well, than when he set out to the police-court that morning.

News of Jim's display of pugilistic prowess had preceded him to the hospital--for one of the students had been an eye-witness of the battle--and he was saluted by the unruly crew there with acclamation. But Jim still had the taste of the police-court air in his mouth, and did not feel at all heroic. But for Koko's intervention his name would have been in a good many papers on the following day, and perhaps a briefer notice of "Hodgkins" and her misuse of domestic implements would have followed the account of the young doctor's "disorderly conduct."

That day he went home early, and tried to do some reading. He ended up, however, by going to a theatre with Koko. On the next evening he really did do some reading, and this studious fit lasted for quite a week.

"The Long 'Un," said the red-haired student at Matt's, "is turning over a new leaf. I will buy him a prize."

When Jim, on reaching the hospital next day, entered the students' common-room, he found a neat package, addressed to himself, occupying a prominent position on the mantelpiece. On opening the package he found that it consisted of a nice little one-and-sixpenny book, of the kind published by religious societies, entitled "Jim's Repentance: The Story of a Bad Boy Who Saw the Evils of His Ways."

The red-haired youth took the precaution of putting the table between himself and the Long 'Un ere he said: "Had to go through a catalogue before I found a suitable prize for you, Jim. Girl in the shop helped me."

Jim flung it at his head.

"Naughty, angry Jim!" said the red-haired student, reprovingly, as he dodged the book. "I shall take your prize away from you now."

Presently Jim found himself at the piano, and a little later out in the quad with the red-haired one and half-a-dozen others, "wondering what to do."

Eventually they solved the problem by going to a music-hall and joining vociferously in the choruses--it was one of those music-halls where the audience does join in the choruses--and the end of it was that Jim got home sometime between one and two in the morning, feeling uncommonly merry and not at all repentant.

But that was Jim's last night round the town with the Matt's lot. Even while he was chirruping choruses, an epistle was winging its way towards him by express train. He got that missive at breakfast time, and Koko, who called in just then, found him looking thoughtful.

"Read that," he said to Koko. And Koko read as follows:--

"Pangora," Threeways,

Sept. 20th.

MY DEAR JAMES,--You may possibly remember that in the course of the conversation I held with you over the telephone on the day of your departure for town, I expressed myself quite plainly with regard to your future conduct. My attention has to-day been drawn to a paragraph in the local Liberal journal--I am, as you know, a Conservative in politics--to the effect that a medical man named James Mortimer, who gave his address as St Matthew's Hospital, behaved in a disgraceful fashion at the Exhibition one night earlier in the month, and was eventually fined forty shillings and severely reprimanded by the magistrate. As I happen to know that you are the only Mortimer at St Matthew's, and as I am aware of your liking for drunken brawls, I can only conclude that you disregarded my injunctions at the first opportunity that presented itself. I am obliged, therefore, to keep my part of the compact by informing you that my doors are henceforth closed to you, and that you need never look to me for another penny.

I am,
Your affectionate grandfather,
JOHN MORTIMER.

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."

CHAPTER VIII.

NUMBER NINE.

Before the era of cheap train services, omnibuses, and trams--when the outer London suburbs of to-day were smiling meadowland, and people talked of Hampstead "village"--there were many residential quarters within a walk of the City on both the Middlesex and Surrey sides of the river. But with the growth of steam power arose great factories, and as fast as these central residential quarters were swept away by commerce, rows and rows of new streets swallowed up the fields that fringed Suburbia, and afforded accommodation to those whose homes in the heart of London were being razed to the ground.

But some of these quiet old squares and crescents have survived to this day, and you may still find them here and there, sadly shorn of the respectable family appearance they wore in their youth, and hemmed in by huge and ugly business barracks from whose grimy windows issue the whirr and hiss and thud of machinery, the monotonous clacking of type-writers, and the continuous patter of footsteps on iron-shod stairs.

These architectural survivors of a day when the world, humanly speaking, did not go round so fast--when the Times received news by "electric telegraph," and issued bulletins of various interest supplied by "Mr Reuter's" special service--nowadays look like faded old maids, for their exterior smartness is gone and their interior arrangement smack of a time when it never occurred to a builder to put a bathroom in a house, for the simple reason that he did not know how to convey hot water to it, save by means of a can. In some of them each floor is occupied by a separate family, while in others you may perceive the familiar dreary legend "Apartments to Let" on a card which hangs disconsolately in the fanlight over the door.

Such a crescent as we have described is Derby Crescent, which is situated but a stone's throw from the bustling thoroughfare that leads from Blackfriars Bridge to the "Elephant," and thence on and away to the Old Kent Road, itself suggestive of coach and chaise and the days of our grandfathers. Why Derby Crescent escaped demolition when Dame Commerce stretched out her long, lean, hungry hand and grabbed wide acres of comfortable homesteads for her building needs, nobody can tell you. But it remained, while its neighbouring squares and crescents vanished; and so, when William Maybury cotton spinner, of Manchester, was declared a bankrupt, he was glad to hide his head in one of the two houses which belonged to his wife in this self-same area. It was his second wife, for his first had died whilst still pretty and youthful. And it may be added that he had long since repented his second matrimonial venture, in spite of the houses and money the lady brought with her as a marriage portion.

To No. 9, therefore, he removed such goods and chattels as he was able to save from the wreck of his luxurious house in Manchester, and at No. 9 he had been residing for three years when Jim Mortimer rattled up in a cab a few hours after his talk with Sir Savile, and announced his arrival by plying a knocker that, like the house it belonged to, had seen very much better days.

After some delay the door was opened by a slatternly maid of tender years, for her hair still hung down her back in a plaited queue.

The girl surveyed Jim, and then said, "Are you the new boarder, please?" Then, before Jim could reply, she turned swiftly round and exclaimed, in a shrill voice, "Oh, shut hup, Master Frank!"

A boyish laugh rang out, and Jim, peering into the gloomy hall, perceived a lad aged about fourteen accoutred in Etons a good deal the worse for wear--apparently harmony reigned at No. 9 as far as appearances went--with a gleeful smirk on his face.

"Yes," said Jim, "I am Mr Mortimer."

"Will you come in, please?" the girl rejoined, and again swished round to remonstrate with her tormentor. "Give hover, Master Frank--I'll tell your ma, I will!"

"Sneak!" observed the amiable young gentleman addressed.

"Leave my 'air alone, then!"

Jim turned round and bade the cabman bring his portmanteau into the house, and as the cabman, with much heavy breathing, deposited the portmanteau in the hall, a large, middle-aged lady emerged from one of the sitting-rooms and treated the new boarder to a gracious smile.

"Dr Mortimer, I presume?"

Jim bowed.

"Sir Savile Smart was so kind as to wire--as well as you--and tell us that you were coming to take poor Dr Morgan's place. Very sad, was it not? Such a nice, quiet old gentleman! But it's only old gentlemen and women that these cowardly Hooligans venture to touch--indeed, we hardly dare go out after dark! It gave us a great shock when we heard of what had happened to Dr Morgan. The poor dear gentleman was really past work, and must have fallen an easy prey to the ruffians. My husband is not so young as he was, and I often feel nervous lest something should happen to him! He makes me very cross by refusing to carry a life-preserver. Every evening I expect to see his mangled corpse brought to the door. If we could afford to, we should move out of this dreadful neighbourhood, but there! people must live where they can live! When my husband met with his reverses, you see, Dr Mortimer, our thoughts naturally turned to Derby Crescent, where we could live rent free, as my dear mother left me her property in this--but your cabman is waiting, Dr Mortimer, and no doubt you wish to dismiss him!"

During her flight of eloquence the cabman had been regarding Mrs Maybury with a most grim and forbidding expression on his face. Jim, remembering that he had left his overcoat in the cab, walked back to the vehicle with him.

"What's the damage, cabby?" inquired the Long 'Un, when he had secured his coat.

"Leave it to you, sir."

Jim gave him sixpence over his fare. Over-paying cabmen had always been a weakness of his.

"Much obliged, sir!" The cabman touched his hat and pocketed the silver. "Wish you luck of your new quarters, sir."

"Thanks, cabby," said Jim.

"The way to treat 'er," continued the cabman, indicating the house--and presumably its mistress--with his thumb, "is to cut in when she's 'arfway through what she's got to say. Them kind o' wimmen don't mind bein' interrupted. Leastways, they mind a bit, but they ain't annoyed. They go on afterwards same as if you 'adn't interrupted of 'em. You sees what I mean?"

"I see what you mean," said Jim.

"My old woman goes on just like 'er"--with another thumb indication--"and so I know. I let 'er reel it off till I'm tired, and then I change the subjick, casual-like. It's quiet easy to make 'em change the subjick. There's wimmen 'oo, directly an idea enters their brains, utters it wiv their mouves. See? It goes inter one and outer the other as natural as rockin' a baby. But you can always interrupt 'em wivout doin' any 'arm, so you bear my tip in mind. Good-night to you, sir!" he added, mounting his box.

"Good-night to you, cabby," said Jim, who concluded, as he walked up the steps, that the cabman was something of a philosopher.

He found the little servant endeavouring to raise one end of his portmanteau, which, being chock full of clothes, boots, books, and instruments, was no light weight.

"Don't trouble," said Jim; "I'll carry it upstairs."

"I really cannot allow you to do that," said Mrs Maybury. "Frank," she added, turning to the boy, "help Mary with Dr Mortimer's portmanteau."

"Shan't!" said the boy, pouting.

"Obey me at once, Frank!"

"Shan't!" repeated the boy, disappearing into the room from which his stepmother had emerged.

By way of settling the matter, Jim shouldered the portmanteau. "Kindly go first," he said to Mary, "and show me where my room is."

As he was about to ascend the staircase, an immense black cat came stalking along the hall and rubbed itself, purring loudly, against his leg.

"What a wonder!" cried Mary. "Tom generally don't like strangers."

"Good old Tom!" said Jim. Then he commenced his ascent of the stairs, Mary preceding and "Tom" following him.

Thus guided--and accompanied--he at length reached his bedchamber--a by no means spacious apartment on the second floor.

"This was Dr Morgan's room, sir," said the servant; "it's to be yours now, sir."

"Thank you, Mary," said Jim.

Mary lingered. So did the cat.

"It's the room he slept in the night before he--he died, sir," she added, fearfully.

"Well," said Jim, with a smile, "I suppose he had to sleep somewhere!"

"Y--yes, sir--but don't you mind, sir?"

"Mind! No, of course not! You can run along now, if you like," he added, proceeding to unstrap his portmanteau.

As Jim, after unpacking the peculiar assortment of articles in his portmanteau, indulged in what barbers designate a "wash and brush up," his thoughts naturally turned to the people he was henceforth to live with. He wondered how many of them there were; whether there were any more boys like Master Frank; whether there were any more servants, and, if so, whether they were all as small as Mary; whether there were any more boarders, and, finally, whether this was really the home of the Dora Maybury he had met at the Milverton Street post-office. On this last point, however, he felt pretty certain. To begin with, Jim told himself, it was not probable that there were two pretty Dora Mayburys employed by the London Post Office; and, to end with, the boy Frank bore a most remarkable resemblance to the Dora Maybury Jim had been introduced to. In the dim light of the hall, indeed, the likeness was positively startling. Take that boy's Etons off and clothe him in a neat black dress, put a wig of woman's black hair on him, and then, with the angularities of his figure shrouded by the gloom of the hall, there would be presented to view a very good double of Dora Maybury.

Taking these two arguments--if such they may be called--into consideration, Jim felt pretty sure that this was Dora's home. Her home! Jim's brain reeled for a moment at the mere idea of it. His coming here seemed to have happened as things happen in dreams--he could hardly realise even yet that he was actually under the same roof as that which afforded shelter to Dora Maybury.

So quickly had this change in his circumstances been brought about, that he had not even considered what Miss Maybury's ideas on the subject of his advent might be. In truth, he hardly dared to consider the position from that point of view.

Jim had accepted his present post in his usual happy-go-lucky way, being at an age when men of his temperament do not act with much forethought. Had Sir Savile asked him to accompany an expedition in search of the North Pole, he would have agreed to go without a moment's hesitation; had the great surgeon offered him a billet as medical officer to a tour of exploration in Equatorial Africa, Jim would have "signed on" with all the readiness in the world; and with an equal amount of promptitude he would have sailed as surgeon on an emigrant steamer, would have taken over the medical duties in a small-pox ship, a workhouse, a blind school, or a convict prison. Had some great air-vessel been invented, Jim would have jumped at the opportunity to accompany her in her ethereal journey as medical adviser to the intrepid voyagers; or, if such a post had been on offer, he would have consented to doctor the exiles in a Siberian mine. He was, in fact, ready to go anywhere so long as he went in a medical capacity.

Whatever Jim's faults were--and they were many in number--he was at least devoted to his profession. His heart was in his work, and when he really put his shoulder to the wheel there was more than a touch of genius in the manoeuvres of his "hand." For Jim was a surgeon before anything.

Here he was, however, in charge of an obscure practice, where, owing to the proximity of hospitals, there would be few calls on his surgical skill. He would always be welcome, of course, in the operating theatre at "Matt's," although it was not likely that he would often have time to attend there.

Did Jim regret accepting this humble billet in a humble district? Not for a moment! Indeed, when he thought how Fate had afforded him a chance of seeing Dora every day, he very nearly broke into a hornpipe on his bedroom hearthrug. However, he restrained himself, and went down to the drawing-room, the big black cat following steadily in his wake.

Mrs Maybury, her large body clothed in a silk dress that was well in keeping with the fallen fortunes of the family, introduced Jim, firstly, to her husband--a slender man of medium height, between fifty and sixty, with an exceedingly well-cut face and neatly trimmed beard. He welcomed Jim to his house in a few well-chosen, courteous words, and Jim, as he noted the other's perfectly easy tone and manner, understood how Dora had come by the same distinguishing characteristics.

Jim was then introduced to the two other boarders--to Miss Bird, a maiden lady of obese person, harsh voice, and some sixty summers; and to Mr Cleave, a tall, spare man, with a severe face whose beauty was not enhanced by the pimples which flourished upon its surface. Mr Cleave appeared to be about thirty years of age.

"And now," said Mrs Maybury, as Jim took his seat on a small and uncompromisingly hard chair by her side, "I will tell you our ways and hours, Dr Mortimer. We breakfast at eight, as my husband and one of my daughters have to go to business early----" ("Aha!" thought Jim) "and Frank to school. Not that he does much good there," she continued, "as he is kept in almost every day for not learning his home lessons properly. He goes to the Metropolitan School for Boys--yes, a very good school, but the money seems to be wasted in Frank's case. Either he is teasing Mary or the cat, or getting into mischief of some sort--indeed," lowering her voice, "he has nearly driven Miss Bird out of the house already; not that that would be a very great loss, indeed, seeing that she----"

"By the way, Mrs Maybury," said Jim, recollecting the cabman's advice, "you will excuse my mentioning it, but have you a dau----"

At that moment, with a jingle, a rattle, and a stamping of hoofs, a cab pulled up in front of No. 9. Mrs Maybury hastened to the window and peered through the blind.

"It is Dora and Mr Jefferson--how kind of him to drive her home!"

Jim's tongue froze to his teeth. "Yes, I have two daughters--step-daughters, rather;" she continued, returning to Jim's side, "the elder, Harriet Rebecca--she hates her names so much that we call her 'H.R.'--helps me with the housekeeping, and Dora is in--in the--er--Civil Service. Mr Jefferson," she added, confidentially, "has been paying her attentions for some time."

At that moment the door opened, and Dora Maybury, radiant with excitement, hastened up to her stepmother. "Oh, mamma, Mr Jefferson has a box at Daly's to-night. Can I go with him? He says he doesn't mind Frank coming, too----"

"Certainly you may go, dear. Oh, and one moment, dear! Dr Mortimer--this is my step-daughter--Dora."

"I have had the pleasure," said Jim, as he bent his lofty head, "of meeting Miss Dora before, Mrs Maybury."

"Indeed!" cried Mrs Maybury. "How very small the world is! Yes--and--Mr Jefferson--Dr Mortimer."

Dora's companion had entered the room and approached the group. Directly their eyes met, Mr Jefferson and Jim recognised each other, the former being no less a person than the pale-faced gentleman who had uttered loud remarks at the Exhibition concerning early closing.

"I too have had the pleasure of meeting Dr Mortimer before," said Mr Jefferson, without troubling to return Jim's bow, "but I cannot say that I am pleased to see him again."

"Why, dear me!" said Jim with ready wit, "you must be the man who trod on my toes at the Exhibition the other night."

And at this unexpected rejoinder--much to Mr Jefferson's annoyance--Dora's pretty lips parted in an unmistakable smile.

CHAPTER IX.

IN THE PILLORY.

The somewhat strained situation brought about by Mr Jefferson's remark was suddenly relieved by a loud scream, and then a volume of shrill protest from Mary, who appeared, judging by the sound of her voice, to be in close proximity to the drawing-room door.

"Shut hup, Master Frank--give hover, I say. Your pa shall 'ear of this----"

Master Frank jeered rudely. "Bah, tell-! Don't care if he does!"

"Oh!" shrieked Mary, "it's bitin' me. Take it off, Master Frank!"

Mr Maybury walked to the door and, opening it, looked into the hall.

"What is the matter, Mary--why are you making so much noise?" he inquired.

"Master Frank put a beetle on my neck," whimpered Mary.

"Didn't," said Frank.

"Don't tell an untruth, Frank," his father warned him. "Did you or did you not put a beetle on Mary's neck?"

"It was a spider," admitted Frank, who, tease and scapegrace as he was, had not yet developed into that most difficult of persons to deal with--a liar.

"It was something crawly, and I thought it was a beetle," said Mary; "he keeps beetles," she added, in a tone conveying painfully correct knowledge on the point.

"Apologise at once to Mary," Mr Maybury commanded his son.

"Don't see why I should," muttered the rebellious youth.

"Very well, then--you will not go to the theatre to-night with Mr Jefferson and Dora."

The younger Miss Maybury, blushing somewhat (Jim noted the fact with a sinking heart), hastened to the scene of reprimand. "Oh, Frank--say you are sorry. You must come to-night."

Mr Jefferson, with his eye on the old-fashioned chandelier, fervently hoped that Frank would remain obstinately unrepentant.

"I'm--er--sorry," said Frank, stiffly.

"Dear Frank--I knew you would!" said Dora, flinging her arms round her brother's neck and bestowing a kiss of gratitude upon his brow.

"Here--chuck that!" cried Frank, shaking himself free. "What time must I be ready by?" he added.

"We shall start directly after dinner--I'm going up to dress now," cried Dora, and so the group separated, Frank and his sister proceeding upstairs, Mary descending to the kitchen--where Miss H. R. Maybury was preparing the evening meal--and Mr Maybury returning to the drawing-room.

"That boy," exclaimed Miss Bird, in a loud, nutmeg-grating tone, "ought to be sent to a reformatory."

Mrs Maybury turned on her lady boarder with asperity.

"You will oblige me, Miss Bird, by moderating your language when speaking of Frank."

"Idle, graceless young rascal!" added Miss Bird, who was not at all afraid of Mrs Maybury.

"Of course," said Mrs Maybury, with a contemptuous glance at her husband, "if the boy's father allows him to be spoken of in this way, I, who am only his stepmother----"

"Miss Bird is a little severe in her strictures, but I am afraid something must shortly be done to curb Frank's insubordination," said Mr Maybury with admirable tact.

"Try him with a whipping and dry bread and water for a week," snarled Miss Bird, who disliked children generally, and abominated Master Maybury.

"Pardon?" inquired Mr Cleave, who had sat through all the clamour deep in a bilious-looking periodical called The Total Abstainer. Mr Cleave, it should be added, was a little deaf. As, on looking up, he found Miss Bird scowling at him, he concluded that she had addressed him.

"--Bread and water for a week!" shouted Miss Bird, irritably. She hated having to repeat anything, and the case was made worse in Mr Cleave's case by the defect in his hearing.

"Water?" Mr Cleave nodded and smiled. "Certainly--plenty of water. Are you an abstainer, sir?" he concluded, turning to Jim, whose name he had not properly caught when they were introduced.

"Not I," replied Jim heartily.

Mr Cleave blinked severely.

"You sometimes fall into deadly sin by polluting your lips with alcoholic liquor?" he inquired.

"I occasionally have a drink," acknowledged Jim.

Gradually a very pained and shocked expression stole over Mr Cleave's cadaverous countenance. For Mr Cleave, as need hardly be explained, was a fanatic on the liquor question--the kind of ill-balanced enthusiast that does his cause more harm than good by his unbridled and immoderate denunciations of the evil he wishes to abolish. He gazed upon Jim with wonder and shame, and then, deeming him too hardened to be affected by remonstrance, turned for comfort to the pages of The Total Abstainer, and particularly to that part where notorious cases of drunkenness were set down under the kind, Christian-like heading of "OUR PILLORY."

While these remarks were being passed, Mr Jefferson, who had dressed for the theatre before he went to meet Dora, had been turning over the pages of a magazine and occasionally stealing a glance at Jim. For he was rather puzzled at finding the latter at No. 9. He was--it must be remembered--entirely ignorant concerning Jim's identity. He had seen Jim before, it was true, when visiting the Exhibition with Dora and her sister, and had looked diligently in the paper for several days afterwards to see what sort of punishment had been meted out to the turbulent youth, but had failed to glean any information there, thanks to the absolute silence Koko's press friends had maintained on the subject.

So, gradually, the incident faded out of Mr Jefferson's mind, and he had forgotten all about it when he entered Mr Maybury's house on this particular evening, to find himself face to face with the disturber of the peace whose toes he had trodden on some ten days since--and whose pardon he had so unwisely omitted to beg.

Jefferson was the son of a wealthy City man. He enjoyed a liberal allowance, golfed, motored, and ploughed the smooth waters of the Thames in a steam-launch. He did everything, in fact, which cost money. Golf is not a cheap game as played in clubs round London; motoring is not a poor man's hobby; a steam-launch is a fairly expensive toy. Football and cricket are trifles light as air--from an expenditure point of view--compared with the pastimes Mr Jefferson followed. Mr Jefferson might have played football and cricket, for he was only twenty-six, but he preferred pursuits which betokened him to be the possessor of a well-filled purse. When he referred to his recreations he endeavoured to make it clear to his listeners that he had been out in his own motor-car, and that he had not been churning the pleasant reaches of Henley and Maidenhead at the invitation of any whisky baronet or tea and coffee knight. He had been, if you please, in his own launch. An unkind City acquaintance of his had once wondered--audibly--why Jefferson didn't have the receipted bill for his launch pasted on the exterior of the craft, just under her name. This was unkind, but they say very unkind things about and to each other in the City. The Stock Exchange--of which the Messrs Jefferson, father and son, were both members--is as merciless in its chaff as a public school. Which, as my public school readers will agree, is speaking very highly of the Stock Exchange.

For the rest, Mr Jefferson could make himself exceedingly agreeable when he liked, and as he was good-looking, attentive, gentlemanly, and always well dressed, it was not surprising that he had managed to make an impression on Dora's girlish and inexperienced mind. To tell the truth, Mr Jefferson had come to the conclusion that Dora would be his for the asking, and, therefore, was not going to hurry himself over the matter. She was a charming girl--the most charming girl he had ever met--and he admired her immensely. Possibly he would have been deeply in love with her by this time had she not always received him with a smile of genuine welcome and accepted his invitations to go here and there, and see this and that, with unconcealed delight. After the drudgery of the post-office counter, and the doubtful joys offered by her home circle, Mr Jefferson's society came as a very pleasant relief to Dora. Whenever they went out together he spent his money handsomely and gave her of the best--and Dora was accordingly grateful and quite prepared to whisper a tender affirmative when Harold Jefferson asked her to be his wife.

So stood the matter when Jefferson drove her home--she had begged off from her work early, at his request--this September evening. So stood the matter when Dora entered the drawing-room and was introduced to "Dr Mortimer."

When Harold Jefferson, following Dora at a leisurely pace, heard Jim say that he had met Miss Maybury before, he pricked up his ears. And when, on entering the drawing-room, he saw who the gentleman was that had met Dora before, a vague but distinct feeling of annoyance came over him. He had met Jim in the inimical manner already described, and, as he turned over the pages of the magazine, made up his mind to take an early opportunity to inform Mrs Maybury of the part this new boarder--Jefferson presumed Jim was a new boarder--had lately played before a large and interested audience.

Presently Dora and Frank came downstairs. The former looked prettier than ever in a white dress--with a pearl necklace, a gift Of Mr Jefferson's, round her fair neck, and some other tiny shining ornament in her hair. Frank looked unusually clean and dapper in his best suit, Dora having tied a neat bow for him and generally supervised his toilet.

Dora seated herself on the arm of her father's chair, and stroked the thin hair on his head in the caressing way both pretty and plain daughters are often pleased to exhibit. Once only Dora stole a shy and somewhat apprehensive glance at Jim. She had recognised Jim's voice directly he spoke to Mr Jefferson at the Exhibition, and had turned her face away, as she did not desire Jim, on the strength of his introduction to her earlier in the day, to address her whilst he was in such a quarrelsome mood.

And now--here he was--this Mr (or Dr) Mortimer--under her own father's roof; and here, too, was Mr Jefferson, who had already expressed his feelings with regard to this Mr (or Dr) Mortimer. Under the peculiar circumstances, Dora had no desire to enter into conversation with Jim, and so took shelter--as girls so often, and so wisely, do--under the paternal wing.

Frank, however, had no reason to avoid Mr Mortimer. He rather admired him for the easy way he had picked up his portmanteau and shouldered it upstairs. A real boy admires a strong man, and Frank was a real boy enough--suffering, at present, from being too much at home--for his summer holidays were only just over. So he seated himself by Jim.

"I say, Dr Mortimer," he said at length, "would you mind telling me how tall you are?"

Jim was genially glad of somebody to talk to.

"Six foot four," he replied.

"I say! Do you like being so tall?"

"Don't mind it," said Jim; "knock my head rather too often, perhaps."

Frank laughed. "There's a master at my school almost as tall as you," he proceeded, "but much broader."

"Indeed!" said Jim, who frequently had to listen to comparisons of this sort.

"Well," continued Frank, surveying Jim with a critical eye, "I don't know whether he's much broader. You are rather broad, aren't you? But he's much fatter. They say he weighs eighteen stone. What do you weigh?"

"Frank," said Mrs Maybury, "don't ask such personal questions, dear."

Dora smiled. She was listening in a not uninterested way to her brother's ingenuous remarks.

"Oh, I don't mind, Mrs Maybury," said Jim; "I go just over thirteen stone," he added, addressing Frank.

The boy looked thoughtful. Presently he said: "Can you fight well, Dr Mortimer?"

He asked the question in all innocence, for Dora had not breathed a word about Jim's performance at the Exhibition.

"I don't like fighting," replied Jim; "I am afraid of my nose bleeding."

Frank gazed at him with suspicion. Then, as Jim's face remained quite grave, Frank's grew scornful. Afraid of his nose bleeding! That was a nice thing for a man of six feet four to say!

To what extent Frank might have continued his interrogations we can only vaguely surmise, but at this point Miss Bird--who had been much irritated by Frank's inquisitive treble tones--dashed into the breach.

"And what, Mr Cleave," she asked, "are the cases in your 'Pillory' this week? Anything of an exceptional nature?"

Mr Cleave came to life with a convulsive start. He had been absorbed in a series of reports supplied by the Abstainer's special commissioner from the London police-courts.

"Pardon?" he asked. "Didn't catch----"

Miss Bird snapped her teeth, which came together much as a man-trap would close on an unfortunate poacher's leg.

"'Pillory!' What's the worst case?" she bawled.

"Oh! The cases in 'Our Pillory'?" bleated Mr Cleave.

"Yes! Read 'em out!" Miss Bird returned in a saw-like, rasping growl.

Mr Cleave turned over the pages of The Total Abstainer with evident relish.

"The worst," he said, in a high, thin voice, "is one that our commissioner only heard by unexpected good fortune. He does not often go westwards. He finds that Bow Street and Whitechapel bring more grist----"

"Read it out!" shouted Miss Bird.

"A piteous example of what over-indulgence in alcohol may bring a man to (read Mr Cleave) was afforded by a case which came before our notice one day last week in the Kensington Police Court. The degraded being, who faced the magistrate with an unabashed gaze, was a young doctor named Mortimer, who gave as his address a place of mercy and healing--the Hospital of St Matthew."

"By George!" exclaimed Jim, "that's how our local rag got hold of it! Copied it out of your paper."

"Pardon?" observed Mr Cleave.

"Go on!" roared Miss Bird.

"The facts were few but terrible (continued Mr Cleave). This member of a noble calling, inflamed and rendered reckless of all consequences by the Bend aforesaid, actually made a ferocious onslaught on a band of six policemen. In a fair pleasure garden he let loose his unruly passions, and only after a terrific struggle was he captured, handcuffed, and thrust into a cell----"

"They locked you up, then?" inquired Jefferson, glancing maliciously at Jim.

"Not they," said Jim; "I was let out on bail."

Miss Bird turned sharply round and glared into Jim's face.

"Are you the person referred to in that report?" she demanded.

"I am," said Jim.

A silence fell on the room. Even the dim-of-hearing Mr Cleave appreciated the situation, and understood that the lately arrived Dr Mortimer was identical with the prime villain of the "Pillory" that week.

"Pray continue, Mr Cleave," said Jefferson at length, with a curl of his lip; "I am sure Dr Mortimer does not mind."

Mr Cleave was bending over the paper again, when an interruption came from an unthought-of quarter. Mr Maybury rose to his feet.

"I do not think," he said, "that Mr Cleave had better proceed with his reading."

"Nonsense!" said Jefferson. "Go ahead, Mr Cleave."

"For the sake of the Cause, Mr Maybury," piped Cleave, "I wish to----"

"I am master of this house," said the ruined manufacturer, who, generally so mild and retiring, now spoke with unfaltering firmness, "and I say that no man shall be insulted to his face under my roof. You will oblige me, Mr Cleave, by not reading another word of that report. Frank, go and see if dinner is ready."

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!"

CHAPTER XI.

MR MAYBURY'S RESOLVE.

Mr Maybury received a long and severe curtain lecture from his wife on the night of Jim's arrival at No. 9, the subject of it being Jim Mortimer and Jim Mortimer's delinquencies.

"After the disgraceful revelations of this evening," said the good dame, as, having blown out the candle, her lord composed himself for slumber, "we can't allow him to stay with us. It would give the house a bad name. People would tattle and gossip until we should be obliged to move. Imagine! Drunk and disorderly! fought the policemen! had to be bound with ropes and taken in an ambulance to a police-station----"

"I hardly think it was quite so bad as that," Mr Maybury interrupted in a mild, sleepy voice.

"The fact remains," continued Mrs Maybury, with energy, "that he was taken to a police-station, was fined, was reprimanded by the magistrate. A nice sort of man to have in one's house contaminating the children! Frank has taken a fancy to him already; the next thing will be Frank fighting policemen----"

"Don't talk such nonsense, my dear," said Mr Maybury. "Medical students," he added, "often get into trouble. Nobody cares much if they do; they are regarded as privileged madcaps. Dr Mortimer is a very young man--still a student at heart. I must say I like what I've seen of him very much, and am not surprised at Frank's taking a fancy to him."

"Do you want your son to be sent to a reformatory, as Miss Bird suggested?" inquired Mrs May bury.

"He won't be," her spouse assured her; "Frank has no vices; he's only mischievous."

"If he imitates Dr Mortimer," cried Mrs Maybury, "there's no knowing what the boy won't come to. No, William, you must tell Dr Mortimer that he must find fresh lodgings. He can't stay here. Miss Bird and Mr Cleave will both leave if he does. Mr Cleave told me to-night that he cannot breathe the same air as such a man."

"Cleave's an old woman," muttered Mr Maybury.

"Miss Bird----" began Mrs Maybury.

"I wish Miss Bird would go," put in Mr Maybury.

"And you can see Mr Jefferson doesn't like him," continued Mrs Maybury, "with half an eye. Mr Jefferson!--the man to whom you are indebted for your daily bread!"

"I'm employed by his father," objected Mr Maybury.

"It's all the same. Mr Jefferson got you your post. Suppose he told his father that you were harbouring a man who fights policemen and gets drunk----"

"His father would say that that was my business," rejoined Mr Maybury.

"Well, we can't risk keeping him here. It's too dangerous. I've no objection to the young man myself----"

"Then why d'you go on about him so much?" retorted Mr Maybury.

"For the sake of our home and its reputation," almost shrieked Mrs Maybury, "that's why. Here I work and slave and get no thanks--not a word of thanks--and then, when I express an opinion, you snap my head off. It's more than flesh and blood can stand!" she concluded, dissolving into tears.

"Suppose," said Mr Maybury, placidly, "we discuss the matter in the morning?"

"I won't say another word," cried Mrs Maybury, between her sobs; "I've said all I have to say. If you keep this man here, he'll take our good name away. There--now I've done!"

And so, with sobs at intervals, she at length fell asleep.

The once wealthy merchant held a very modest position in the business house of Jefferson & Son. He was, in fact, but one of their book-keepers. He--the erstwhile employer of fifty clerks and five hundred workpeople--now sat on a high stool at a high desk and laboured at the books for a small salary. When a man has come down in the world with a sudden run he is generally to be had at a low figure, and Jefferson & Son bore the fact in mind when they engaged Mr Maybury. The hours (ten to four) were short, it is true, but Mr Maybury would have worked later willingly could he have thereby added to his earnings.

The other clerks at Jefferson & Son's were mainly young fellows between whom and Mr Maybury no great bond of fellowship could very well exist. He was left largely to himself, therefore, went out to his frugal mid-day meal alone, returned alone, and said very little to those about him from the time the office opened till its closing hour.

Harold Jefferson did not trouble himself with business more than he could help. He preferred the West End to the City. However, he put in a certain number of appearances per week, and whilst at the office treated Mr Maybury with respect, mingled with a slight but distinct air of patronage.

Such conversations as they held related, of course, entirely to the firm's business, and so it was with no little surprise that, on the day following Jim's arrival at No. 9, Mr Maybury received an invitation from Harold Jefferson. "I want to speak to you about one or two matters," ran the pencilled note which the office-boy handed to Dora's father, "so shall be glad if you will lunch with me at 1.30. I will be waiting for you at the front entrance at that hour."

It was, of course, as much a command as an invitation. At the appointed time Mr Maybury met young Mr Jefferson, who at once hailed a cab and drove his guest to a restaurant in the West End. It would not do at all (thought young Mr Jefferson) to be seen lunching with one of his clerks at a restaurant in the City.

"Now, Mr Maybury," said the host, when lunch was over and they had lit their cigars, "I have two things to say to you. One of them concerns your daughter--Miss Dora."

Mr Maybury inclined his head. He had not imagined that this invitation was the outcome of purely hospitable motives.

"I have been paying her attentions for some time," said the well-to-do young stockbroker, "and I propose, with your sanction, to ask her to marry me."

"You have my full consent to do so," said the ruined merchant, graciously.

"From what you have observed, do you think that my proposal will be favourably received?" asked Jefferson, carelessly.

"I can offer no opinion," said Mr Maybury.

"I may at least take it that, if she accepts me, you are willing to regard me as a prospective son-in-law?"

"Perfectly willing," was the reply.

"Thank you. Now, as to this fellow Mortimer----"

"I beg your pardon. What has Mr Mortimer to do with the matter?"

"If," said Jefferson, "I become engaged to your daughter, Mr Maybury, I shall have a decided objection to your allowing such a man as Mortimer to remain under the same roof as my fiancée."

Mr Maybury took a thoughtful pull at his cigar. The well-to-do young stockbroker looked keenly at the ruined merchant. It was to the latter's advantage to defer to the former. Was he not, as his wife remarked, indebted to this man for his daily bread?

Mr Maybury laid down his cigar and sipped his champagne, and meantime such reflections as these coursed through his brain. He was a very poor man, 'tis true, but he had always prided himself on being a just one. Personally, he had perceived no great harm in "this fellow Mortimer." Why, therefore, should he turn him out of his house?

"Well?" inquired the young stockbroker, curtly.

"The most charitable course to pursue," said Mr Maybury, at length, "would be to see how he goes on. Should he prove himself unfit----"

"He has. He is a low, drunken brawler. I cannot bear the thought of Dora being brought into daily contact with him. You will at least admit that I have a right to lodge an objection against him--or will have, should your daughter accept me?"

"I should prefer to see how he goes on," said Mr Maybury.

"Very well, sir," rejoined Jefferson, rising from his seat with a look of great annoyance on his face, "have it your own way. Waiter, my bill. Please excuse me now, Mr Maybury, as I am not returning to the City."

Instead of going straight to the office, when he got back to the City, Mr Maybury turned into a quaint little churchyard--a smoke-begrimed patch of green, where one might rest awhile on a seat. Here he remained for ten minutes, and when he at length turned his steps officewards, he had made up his mind that, however disastrous such an attitude might prove to his prospects, he would in no way seek to influence Dora in Harold Jefferson's favour. Nor should Jim Mortimer leave his house, unless he himself desired to go.

"I have lost pretty nearly everything," thought the ex-merchant as he paced his way along the crowded pavement, "but till the day of my death I hope, please God, to retain my self-respect."

The thought inspired him, and he went back to his book-keeping with an unusual light in his eyes--with an additional firmness in his step. 'Twas true that Fate had robbed him of wealth and position, but Fate's worst buffets could not cause him to act in any way save that becoming a gentleman.

CHAPTER XII.

KOKO'S WORD.

"We'd better have a cab," said Koko, in his quiet way, as, after Jim's curt dismissal by Dr Taplow, they walked down the pavement together.

"Right you are," groaned Jim. He felt too ill, weak, and miserable to do anything except just agree with everything that was said to him. If the gentle reader has ever been sea-sick he will be in a position to appreciate Jim's condition.

"Keep a grip on that lamp-post while I fetch one," said Koko, hastening away through the gloom of the autumn evening.

When the cab arrived, Jim got in thankfully; and the two friends, holding Tom, who had followed Jim out of the surgery, between them, rattled off.

"I suppose you'll ask me to stay to dinner with you?" said Koko.

Jim uttered a hollow laugh.

"Stay if you like, but I won't guarantee you'll enjoy yourself."

"Any girls?" inquired Koko, flirtingly.

"Two," said Jim; "also a woman-man teetotal crank, and a female gorilla."

Koko particularly wished to stay to dinner with Jim, for he was formulating a plan for Jim's future. But he was not going to expound it until Jim was in a state to give it due consideration.

On reaching No. 9 they found Frank lurking in the passage. When Jim removed his hat, Frank, observing his wound, was filled with curiosity.

"I say, Dr Mortimer, how did you hurt your forehead?"

"Somebody hurt it for me," said Jim.

"Was it a fight?" inquired the youth excitedly.

"Kind of one," admitted Jim.

Full of the news he had gleaned, Frank burst into the drawing-room, where Mr and Mrs Maybury, Dora, and the other paying guests were awaiting the summons to dinner.

"I say, pater, Dr Mortimer's been having a fight. He's got an awful cut over the napper."

"Frank!" exclaimed Mrs Maybury, "how often must I tell you not to use such vulgar terms?"

Frank grinned.

"You go and have a look at it!" he added, with supreme gusto, "you never saw such a whopping cut in all your life."

Mrs Maybury turned a glance on her husband which plainly said: "And what do you think of him now?"

Miss Bird gave a snort of disgust, and Mr Cleave, heaving a deep sigh, buried himself anew in the advertisements of The Total Abstainer, he having by this time utterly exhausted all the literary portions of the paper.

Jim sent Mrs Maybury a message by Mary intimating that he had brought a friend, Mr Somers, home with him, and would be greatly obliged if she would permit the said Mr Somers to remain to dinner. Mrs Maybury graciously replying that she would be "most happy," Koko and Jim (the latter with his head neatly plastered) in due course appeared in the drawing-room.

Much to Mrs Maybury's surprise, Koko, after exchanging bows with the lady of the house, walked straight across to Dora and shook hands with her.

"You know Mr Somers, then, Dora?" inquired Mrs Maybury, somewhat sharply.

"Yes, mamma," replied Dora; "he is a friend of Miss Cook's."

"Indeed!" said Mrs Maybury, to whom it seemed that Miss Cook had been introducing Dora to very undesirable people--for Dora had informed her that it was by Miss Cook's agency she had become acquainted with Jim.

Dora had now been in the post-office six months, and had behaved so far in an exemplary manner. Even the girl's stepmother, prone to find fault as she was on the slightest pretext, had not discovered anything to grumble at in Dora's conduct. But now--now affairs were assuming a different complexion. Dora had made masculine friends unbeknown to her mother. One of them was a dissipated young doctor, and the other--well, who and what was this other man--this Mr Somers?

"And do you, too, belong to the medical profession, Mr Somers?" inquired the dame.

"No, I am a journalist," replied Koko.

Miss Bird glanced up sharply; Mr Cleave also looked across at the visitor. Miss Bird had not been introduced to Mr Somers, but she did not allow little obstacles of that kind to stand in her way when she required information.

"And what is your particular department?" she abruptly demanded.

"I work for the sporting press--I am what is known as a sporting journalist," replied Koko.

The inquisitive expression on Miss Bird's face turned into a stony glare of disapproval.

"You go to horse-races?"

Koko did not like being cross-examined about his private affairs in this unblushing manner. So he determined to let this rude old lady know all about himself so as to save further questions.

"Yes, I attend horse-races and swimming-matches, and billiard-matches and prize-fights----"

"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" roared Miss Bird. As for Mr Cleave, he uttered a thin, high cough. He had heard that the average journalist did his work with a bottle of brandy at his elbow--what then must a journalist be like who reported prize-fights and horse-races! What indeed!

With a sigh he sought distraction in the long list of "Homes for Inebriates" which appeared regularly in The Total Abstainer. This weekly journal was Mr Cleave's invariable comforter when he felt distressed. Besides, it offered £100 insurance in the event of one of its regular subscribers being accidentally killed. Several of Mr Cleave's nearest relatives took in the paper, and Mr Cleave had often calculated what amount he would receive as insurance should all these relatives be killed in one railway accident.

"I believe," Miss Bird went on (as Koko made no rejoinder), "that drunkenness is a common vice among persons working for the press. Is that not so, Mr Cleave?"

"Pardon?" queried Cleave, putting his hand to his ear.

"Bless the man!" exclaimed Miss Bird, irritated beyond measure, "why doesn't he get an ear-trumpet! I was saying," she continued, in a boisterous key, "that most journalists were drunkards. Is that not so?"

Now, Mr Cleave recollected Mr Maybury's stern rebuke of the previous evening, so he deemed it as well to be cautious.

"Some journalists," he replied, nodding pleasantly at Miss Bird.

"Most!" insisted Miss Bird.

"I will not go so far as to say that----" quavered Mr Cleave.

"Then you are a coward!" snapped Miss Bird, in utter disgust. Mr Cleave had proved but a backboneless creature when she had relied on his support.

It is highly probable that Miss Bird would have proceeded to put further questions of a personal nature to Koko had not Mary popped her head into the room with "Dinner's quite ready, mum."

Miss Bird's face cleared. She could eat twice as much as anyone else in the house (not excepting Frank), and the announcement of dinner always put her in a good temper.

Whilst Koko and Jim had been upstairs, before entering the drawing-room, Jim had given his friend a brief sketch of the situation. For, it must be remembered, this was their first meeting since Koko had read old Dr Mortimer's drastic and final epistle. When Jim told Koko that this house was the home of Miss Dora Maybury, Koko had smacked his chum on the back and enjoined him to go in and win; but when Jim mentioned Jefferson, and the latter's attitude with regard to Dora, Koko whistled thoughtfully.

Two things he decided. Firstly, that Jim must stay on at No. 9 at all hazards; and, secondly, that the plan which had been in course of formation in his mind from the moment Dr Taplow had told Jim to go, must take an immediate and definite shape.

That plan Koko intended to broach to Jim after dinner. But Fate willed otherwise.

The meal progressed quietly, the presence of a stranger possibly having a restraining influence on the shrewish outbursts of Miss H. R. Maybury, the cheeky utterances of Master Frank, and the voluble rebukes of Mrs Maybury. Jim was seated between Miss Bird and Mr Cleave, the two girls, with Frank and Koko, facing him. Dora, as a matter of fact, sat immediately opposite Jim.

"Well, Dr Mortimer," presently observed Mr Maybury, "you have not come through your first day's work unscathed, I see."

For Mr Maybury felt sure that Jim would be able to give a satisfactory account of the proceedings.

Miss Bird grunted; Mr Cleave cast a glassy eye on the broccoli. Both waited for Jim's defence.

Jim laughed. "No," he said, "I met a Hooligan."

"Dear me! So soon!"

"I thought it advisable, in view of the possibility of my being some time in the district, to take a strong line from the beginning. So I led off by tackling what turned out to be the worst man of the lot."

"You have shown them that you are not a person to be trifled with?" suggested Mr Maybury, approvingly.

"That was my idea. But you may be interested to hear that another man has been put in permanent charge of the surgery----"

"Then you are no longer employed by Dr Taplow?" interrupted Mrs Maybury.

"That is so," said Jim.

"But he will still work in Mount Street," put in Koko, quickly, "as he is setting up a practice there on his own account."

They all glanced towards Koko, except Dora, who, looking at Jim, observed that he was palpably wonder-struck by Koko's remark. Jim, indeed, was as surprised as anyone at the table. What on earth was Koko driving at?

As everybody (except Dora) turned towards Koko, Mr Somers rose from the table.

"You must excuse such an unceremonious departure, Mrs Maybury," he said, "but I have just remembered that I have a most important appointment to keep. I thank you for your very kind hospitality. Jim, I should like to see you before I go."

As Koko bowed himself out, Jim, marvelling greatly, followed him. In the hall, Koko exclaimed:

"It's all right, Jim--I'll lend you the money."

"What--for me to set up against Taplow?"

"That's it. You must stay here, and you'll do well in Mount Street. You shall have the money in the morning, and then you can go along and rig up a place and start right off. What's the lowest figure you can begin on?"

"I don't know," said Jim. "Say fifty quid."

"You shall have it. I'll be round here with it at ten in the morning."

"But--old man--I don't like----"

"I've thought it out," said Koko, "and meant to tell you all about it after dinner, but you forced my hand by saying you'd left Taplow."

Then Koko put on his hat, opened the front door, and slipped out. Jim returned slowly to the dining-room.

"Is this true, Dr Mortimer?" asked Mrs Maybury, in a tone implying some doubt. "Are you really setting up in Mount Street on your own account?"

Jim had implicit confidence in Koko's word.

"It is quite true, Mrs Maybury," he replied, coolly, as he resumed his seat.

CHAPTER XIII.

"HARRIS & FATHER."

Mr Harris, senior partner in the firm of Harris & Son, provision dealers, Mount Street, S.E., was in a state of much tribulation. For Mr Harris, owing to an unfortunate propensity for backing horses which either came in last, or fell down and broke their legs, or behaved in some other unsatisfactory fashion, had, as the phrase is, outrun the constable, and on the day that witnessed his visit to Dr Taplow's surgery, had found himself threatened with bankruptcy and ruin.

That evening--there being no other course to pursue--he had made a clean breast of his affairs to his son Isaac, a weedy, lynx-eyed youth of a greasy and unwashed appearance.

"So dat is the case, my son," concluded Mr Harris, throwing out his hands in a gesture of despair; "and now--vot are ve to do--vot are ve to do?"

Mr Harris and his heir, it may be added, were East End Jews of a pronounced type, and their speech suggested a certain German strain in their ancestry.

"It is very sad, mine fader," replied young Harris; "it vos foolish of you to bet on dose 'orses----."

"It vos foolish of dose 'orses not to run faster!" cried Mr Harris, proceeding to cut his nails with the counter scissors.

"Don't take the edge off dose scissors, mine fader," said young Harris, snatching them away from his parent.

"And vy not? Dey are my scissors!" exclaimed Mr Harris, endeavouring to grab them back.

"Ven I haf bought dem dey vill not be yours," explained young Harris, amiably turning the point of the scissors towards his sire, so that, should the latter persist in his endeavour to regain them, he might receive some hurt from the effort.

The old dealer gazed wonderingly at his fond child. "You--you vill buy dose scissors? Ah! at the sale?"

"No--from you, mine fader. I haf saved up some money, and I haf backed 'orses, too. But I did notice, mine fader, dat the 'orses you did bet on did always lose, so I did always bet on dose vot you didn't, and so when you did lose I did often vin, and so, mine fader, I will buy the pizness from you--dat is to say," concluded the young man with hasty caution, "I vill pay your debts, mine fader, if you vill gif me the pizness."

"Isaac," said Mr Harris, with emotion, "do not be hard on your old fader. Think of the money I skwandered on your education, my son--think of the peautiful school I put you to ven you vos a boy----"

"It vas only fivepence a veek!" retorted young Isaac, ungratefully.

"And ven you vos fourteen, my son Isaac, ven you vos an eddicated young gentleman, I took you from dat school and I put you behind the counter, and I taught you the pizness--and you had two soots of clothes a year, and a veek's 'oliday at Margit--oh! I haf been a kind fader to you, my son Isaac! Vill you lend me the money to pay my debts vith, Isaac?"

"Not a farding!" exclaimed young Harris, roughly. "You've been 'ard on me, and now I'll be 'ard on you. You've made me vork and slave while you've gone off to put money on 'orses that always fell down! Yes, you've been 'ard on me, and now I'll be----"

Here young Harris paused in his harangue. An idea occurred to him. If he bought up his father's business and turned his father out of the house, he would have to engage a shopman. That would come expensive. No, he must keep his father on, and make him help with the work.

Old Harris was quick to take advantage of the discontinuance of Isaac's discourse.

"You von't be too 'ard on me, my son?" he whined, "think of the pantermimes I took you to ven you vos a little boy."

"Vell, I vill not be 'ard on you, mine fader," responded young Harris, apparently softened by this tender reminiscence. "No, I vill tell you vot I vill do. I vill take you into partnership. You shall be as I vos--you shall haf what you haf gave me. Is not that dootiful of me, mine fader?"

Old Harris groaned. True, his son had been his partner of recent years, but Isaac's share in the business had been so small that it could hardly have been called a share, save when viewed under a microscope. However, beggars can't be choosers, so there and then young Harris drew up a temporary agreement--to be presently made permanent in a due and proper manner by a solicitor--under which Isaac undertook to pay his father's debts (which amounted to a hundred pounds--a large sum for a small tradesman in a humble street), and Mr Harris, on his side, undertook to hand over the control of the shop to Isaac, he himself receiving board, lodging, and a share in the business, on condition he gave as much time to the business as his son had formerly devoted to it.

Thus were the tables completely turned on the unlucky provision dealer.

By way of showing that he was in earnest, and not being restrained by any false delicacy, Isaac, as soon as he had breakfasted on the following morning, went out in search of a painter. Having found a man, he brought him and his ladder and his paint-pot back with him, and set the man at once to alter the title over the shop window from "Harris & Son" to "Harris & Father."

So it came about that when Jim, having received the promised fifty pounds from Koko, walked round to see Mr Harris concerning a suitable tenement wherein he might set up as a surgeon, he found the painter just completing his task, and young Harris, with his hands in his pockets, perkily surveying the alteration.

"Hullo!" said Jim, "changes in the firm, I observe."

"Yes, doctor," said Isaac; "mine fader, he vos ruined by 'orse-racing, and so it is now my shop, and mine fader, he is my partner."

"Don't quite see how it can be your shop if he is your partner," said Jim.

"He vill tell you," said Isaac, indicating the interior of the shop with a dirty forefinger; "he is cleaning the counter. Soon he vill vipe the plates and knives and forks. He is going to vork now as I did used to."

And Isaac resumed his occupation of watching the painter with a most truculent and self-satisfied expression on his face.

Jim walked into the provision shop.

"Morning, Mr Harris."

Mr Harris shook his head despondently.

"I ain't Mr 'Arris no longer," he said. "'E's Mr 'Arris. 'E's the boss. Ah, doctor," continued the old man, wiping away a tear with his shirt-sleeve, "if I'd a-known this vas goin' to 'appen--if I'd a-known that velp vos goin' to buy me up by bettin' on the 'orses I said vos no good, I----"

Mr Harris paused for breath. Jim waited for some interesting old Hebraic curse. But none came.

"--I'd never 'ave let 'im see my evenin' paper. That's vare 'e got it. I marked the 'orses I vos goin' to flutter on, and 'e saw 'em and laid accordin'!"

"Rather smart!" laughed Jim. "The firm got square with the bookies that way."

"And when I think," almost shrieked old Harris, "that 'e betted vith money out of the till--that he used my money to play me that trick vith--when I think of that----"

Again Mr Harris paused for breath, again Jim expected a rich and fruity paternal curse, and again none such came.

"When I think of that," resumed Mr Harris, "it goes to my 'eart to remember I vouldn't buy a cash-registering machine that vos offered to me at 'arf-price by a pawnbroker friend of mine 'oo vos giving up!"

"And why didn't you?" asked Jim.

"Vy? Vy, becos that velp yonder--young Isaac--says: 'Fader, do not buy that machine. If you do, the customers vill steal the sausages vile ve turn our backs to get the change.' That is vy. And I gave 'im a shillin' for bein' so clever. And it's a thousand pound to a little bit of cat's meat, doctor," concluded Mr Harris with great bitterness, "that 'e laid that bob on a 'orse that came 'ome!"

"Well, Mr Harris," said Jim, "I'm sorry you have been so unfortunate. But I must get on with my business. I want to open a surgery in this street, and I want you to tell me if there's a likely house about here for the purpose."

Mr Harris fixed his gaze eagerly on Jim's face, and as he did so his eyes lightened up with a great idea. What he wanted was a little ready money. Get that ready money he must, or his scheme would fail!

"Yes, doctor," he said, "I know a 'ouse. That pawnbroker friend of mine, 'e shut up 'is shop when 'e retired from business, and asked me to get a tenant for it. You shall 'ave it cheap, my dear sir. You can 'ack it about a bit, and it'll suit you fine. Come and see it--come on!"

In nervous haste the old man put on his coat and hat. "Come on, doctor," he said.

But young Isaac confronted his father at the shop door. "Vare vos you goin', mine fader?" he inquired.

"I vos goin' vith the doctor. If I oblige 'im 'e will attend us for nozzing, my son. Is that not good? Come on, doctor."

With this Mr Harris hastened past his son, and, accompanied by Jim, at length arrived at a dingy-looking shop, whose shutters bore sundry placards giving the world to understand that the place was "TO LET."

"There, doctor, that vill make you a peautiful surgery. But you shall see it."

When Jim had inspected the place he decided to take it.

"What's the rent?" he asked old Harris.

"Sixty pounds a year, doctor, paid quarterly in advance."

"Do I pay you, Mr Harris?"

"Yes, you pay me," replied the dealer, hastily.

"All right. Then that's fifteen pounds. You shall have it as soon as I have taken possession. You get a commission on this deal, eh?"

"I get a commission? Vy, yes, I vould not let anything vithout one. I get ten per cent, doctor dear--to come off the first quarter's rent. That's six pounds. You vill pay me in advance, doctor, eh?"

"Oh, rather!" said Jim.

At this point Mr Harris looked cunningly at his young medical adviser. "The top part of the 'ouse, doctor dear--you vill sleep in it?"

"Not I," said Jim.

"Then you vill not vant it?"

"Well, I suppose not."

"You vill lend me the outside, then. Eh? You vill lend me the vall?"

"Lend you the wall--what for?"

"First say you vill lend it me!"

"Well, I'll lend it you. Now tell me what you'll do with it," said Jim.

Mr Harris rubbed his hands together. "I vill let it for advertisements. It vill be an 'oarding. I vill let it to one of those contractors--it vill be a fine 'oarding. It vill not 'urt you, and it vill bring me money."

"Where do I come in?" demanded Jim, laughing.

"Vy, it vill 'elp you, my dear doctor. People will look at the 'oarding, and then they vill see your plate, and then they vill come in for advice, and you'll make a fortune, doctor dear--all through me! Vy, you ought to pay me for the idea!"

"I hadn't thought of it in that light," said Jim, much amused.

The old dealer chuckled with glee. "Ah, my son Isaac!" he cried, "you shall sing yet vith the uzzer side of your mouth. I shall 'ave money. The evenin' paper shall come--Isaac vill mark the 'orses now--'e will back them, and I vill back vot 'e backs. Then ve vill see!"

"That will be a cute dodge--if it comes off!" said Jim.

"Come off--it must!" cried the old man, with the fatalism of the confirmed gambler, "it can't 'elp itself! Aha! And then ve vill see, Isaac my son, ve vill see!"

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.

CHAPTER XV.

KOKO IS THANKED.

Dora often looked at her engagement ring. It was a beautiful ring, and had cost Mr Jefferson thirty pounds. Dora did not know this, but she knew it was a very expensive and valuable ring, and she was very proud of it. She often looked at it--she was for ever holding up her left hand and admiring this lovely, shining, diamond ring--this ring which glittered in dark places and flashed and twinkled even when her hand was quite still.

Dora felt that she was a very lucky girl to have a lover who could give her such a ring. Her stepmother had told her that she ought to consider herself very lucky, and so Dora supposed that she ought to. Yes, it was a beautiful ring, and Dora had blushed when Mr Jefferson had put it on her finger and kissed her. She felt that she was very fond of Mr Jefferson. Few girls, indeed, could boast such a lover as he--good-looking, perfectly dressed, the pink of politeness, and very much in love with her.

She was sure now that she was fond of him. He had proposed to her quite suddenly one night as they were driving home from the theatre. Dora had been considerably flurried by the suddenness of the proposal, and had asked for time to consider her answer. Mr Jefferson had seemed a little put out at her not accepting him at once, but with as good a grace as he could muster he had consented to give her the time she required in which to think him over, and went off for a fortnight's shooting in Scotland.

During this period Dora gave the matter careful consideration, and discussed it with her stepmother. She did not do this very willingly, but Mrs Maybury insisted on introducing the topic, she having been informed by Mr Jefferson of the fact that he had asked Dora to marry him. Mrs Maybury pointed out to Dora that she would, in all probability, never get such a good offer again--that it would be the wildest folly on her part to refuse Mr Jefferson. What was she--Dora? A post-office clerk! Did she wish to go on performing such drudgery? Of course not! This was one of a thousand reasons why she ought to accept Mr Jefferson!

As to the nine hundred and ninety-nine other reasons--well, one of them that must occur to Dora was the fact that her father was employed by the Jeffersons. It was in young Mr Jefferson's power to put Mr Maybury in a much better position at the office. Dora must bear that in mind.

But apart from all this, she had always understood that Dora was very fond of Mr Jefferson. Had she not accepted presents from him and accompanied him to the theatre, to the Exhibition, to all sorts of places? In short, Dora had encouraged him in every possible way, and Mrs Maybury was surprised--greatly surprised--to hear that Dora had even asked for time in which to consider her reply. In Mrs Maybury's opinion, Mr Jefferson had acted in a most considerate manner; he would have been justified in demanding an immediate "Yes" or "No." As it was, he had shown great forbearance.

Mrs Maybury had introduced the topic one evening when Miss Bird and Mr Cleave were present, as well as herself and Dora. She supposed that they both knew that Mr Jefferson had proposed to Dora. They would, therefore, be rather surprised to hear that Dora had asked for time in which to consider her answer.

"Ridiculous!" said Miss Bird. "She ought to write and accept him at once. What do you say, Mr Cleave?"

"Didn't quite catch----" replied Mr Cleave, putting his hand up to his ear.

"I say she ought to write and accept him at once!" howled Miss Bird.

Mr Cleave nodded rapidly. "Yes, an admirable offer. A most temperate young man. Yes--as you say--at once!"

"I am sure, Mr Cleave, I can get on quite well without your advice!" snapped Dora.

"My advice," said Mr Cleave, who only caught the last word of her sentence, "is to accept him. Yes, a good match. A most temperate young man."

"It's got nothing to do with temperance," roared Miss Bird.

Mr Cleave heard this remark--the people in the next house probably did as well--and looked at Miss Bird reproachfully.

"I hope you are not falling away from the Cause?" he said.

"It's got nothing to do with the Cause!" bellowed Miss Bird. "What I say is, a bad husband is better than no husband at all. Even a pretty girl doesn't get too many offers nowadays. Mr Jefferson will make a very good husband, and if Dora doesn't accept him she'll be a fool!"

"You hear what Miss Bird says!" observed Mrs Maybury, looking at Dora.

"Thank you," said Dora, in an icy voice, "I think I can manage my affairs without assistance from Miss Bird!"

With which declaration she flung off to bed.

Eventually, however, she accepted Mr Jefferson. The argument that weighed with her most was that by becoming engaged to Mr Jefferson she could not help but benefit her father. One of the first things Mr Jefferson would do (asseverated Mrs Maybury), after becoming engaged to Dora, would be to find some way of bettering Mr Maybury's position at the office.

It must be borne in mind, too, that Dora was by no means indifferent to Mr Jefferson. Had he suddenly ceased to pay her attentions she would have felt greatly hurt and annoyed, for she had become accustomed to his society, and always enjoyed herself very much whenever he took her out.

"Oh, Miss, what a lovely ring!" cried Mary, when she saw the trinket with which Jefferson had clinched the engagement; "oh! what gleamin' jools! What a rich gentleman he must be, Miss! Dr Mortimer couldn't give you a ring like that, Miss--he's too poor!"

Dora, who had been allowing the little servant to examine the ring (they were in her bedroom at the time, which was bedtime), drew her hand away sharply.

"Don't be so silly, Mary. You really are very stupid sometimes; you say such absurd things."

"I didn't mean anything, Miss," replied Mary, who had really spoken quite innocently; "it only came into my head, like."

"Then you have a very silly head!" exclaimed Dora.

Mary was going out of the room when Dora called her back.

"I'm so tired, Mary. Would you mind brushing my hair for me?"

"Of course I will, Miss," cried Mary (who had been pattering about since six in the morning); "I always love to do things for you, Miss!"

Dora sat down in front of the looking-glass, and Mary took her hair down and combed it and brushed it, "just like a grand lady's," as she said.

"I expect you'll have your own maid when you're married to Mr Jefferson, Miss," added Mary.

Dora made no reply. She was thinking--and the poor overworked little servant, with her woman's instinct, divined her thoughts.

"Don't you think, Miss," she said, presently, "that Dr Mortimer's thinner than when he first came?"

"Oh, I haven't noticed it," said Dora, carelessly.

"I have," returned Mary.

She brushed away vigorously without speaking for some little time, and then she said: "I wonder if he's in love, Miss!"

"Who?" demanded Dora, quite unnecessarily.

"Why, Miss, Dr Mortimer!"

"How should I know!" cried Dora. "Please be quick, Mary--I'm so tired."

"I sometimes think that he is," continued the sentimental little servant, "by the look in his eyes, Miss. I should think," added Mary thoughtfully "that he would be a very faithful lover, like the knights and barons you read of in books. Don't you think so too, Miss?"

"What idiotic things you say, Mary!" cried Dora, impatiently. "There, I think you've brushed my hair quite enough. Thank you very much."

"Quite welcome, Miss," said the little servant; "Good-night, Miss!"

"Good-night, Mary."

The diamond ring, twinkling and flashing, attracted a good deal of attention at the post-office. The other clerks went into raptures about it, and told Dora that she was a very lucky girl. Everybody--it seemed to Dora--said she was a lucky girl. Dora did not altogether appreciate being informed so frequently of her stupendous luck. After all, this ring was only the symbol of a bargain. Was she not giving herself in exchange for it? She did not put the matter to herself quite in these words, but this was the drift of her reflections on the subject. Why should she be considered so very, very lucky?

Miss Cook and she got away from the post-office early one afternoon.

"We will have a nice tea somewhere," said Dora; "I will treat you, dear."

"Shall we go to tea with Mr Somers?" suggested Miss Cook.

"Mr Somers! But he will be out."

"No, he won't. I saw him last night at the house of some friends of mine, and he told me he would be in to-day. I knew we should get off early to-day, and so I asked him," added Miss Cook, a little shamefacedly.

Dora sighed. She was fond of Miss Cook, and she was afraid that Mr Somers was never likely to take a fancy to her friend.

"Very well, dear; we will go and see Mr Somers."

They turned their steps, therefore, in the direction of the Adelphi, where, along a modest terrace, Koko did dwell.

Presently Dora said: "What friends did you go to see last night, Rose?"

"Oh, some old friends of ours--not at all grand. He is a bookseller."

"I suppose he has all the new novels. I wonder if he ever reads them!"

"He doesn't have any new novels, Dora. He is a second-hand bookseller. He deals in all sorts of old books."

"Oh!" said Dora. "Mr Somers is very fond of collecting old books, isn't he?"

"Yes, he has found some very good ones in the twopenny boxes--you know--the boxes which they mark 'THIS LOT 2d.'"

Dora laughed.

"Does Mr Somers go routing about for old books in those boxes?"

"Yes; he has made several 'finds,' as he calls them. My friend bought some from him a short time ago."

"What! has he been selling them again?"

"Yes; I wonder why! He called on my friend quite late one night, and sold him twelve very valuable books. He got fifty pounds for them. I wonder why he sold them--he is so fond of his old books! But here we are! Isn't it a queer, musty old place!"

Koko received the girls with a smile of genuine pleasure. He bustled about and got tea for them, and then Dora played to them both on a very old but still tuneful piano that Koko had picked up at a sale years since.

Then, while Miss Cook sat down and tried to pick out a march on the piano, Koko showed Dora his treasures, and spent quite a time telling her little anecdotes as to how this book and that book had come into his possession. While he talked, Dora was putting two and two together. She remembered how amazed Jim had looked when Koko said he was going to set up in Mount street, and she remembered how Koko had hurried away in the middle of dinner. She understood now why he had done so.

"Some have gone from here," said Dora, pointing to a gap in one of the shelves.

"Yes," said Koko, in an off-hand way, "I have a clear-out occasionally."

"Did you sell them?" she asked.

"Rather--I don't give my books away."

"And did you get a good price for them?"

"Fair," said Koko; "yes, a fair price."

Miss Cook ended up with a loud and inharmonious chord, and rose from the piano.

"Come, Dora--we must be going."

"Oh, don't go yet," urged Koko.

"We must--it is getting late, and Dora is expected at home. Good-bye, Mr Somers."

They shook hands, and Miss Cook sauntered out into the passage.

And now Dora had to say good-bye.

"Mr Somers--I know why you sold those books. You wanted to help Dr Mortimer."

Koko gazed at her for a few moments without speaking, and then said, quite simply: "Yes, I did. Jim's my best friend. I'd do anything to help him."