In White Raiment. Le Queux William

of her only boy. She had brought herself to the verge of poverty that I might complete my studies and become a doctor. Poor mother! She believed, like so many believe, that every doctor makes a comfortable income. And I had worked – nay, slaved – night and day, through seven whole years, for less wage than an average artisan.

      I had not dined, for, truth to tell, I had hesitated to change my last sovereign; but the pangs of hunger reminded me that nothing had passed my lips since the breakfast in my dingy lodgings, and knowing of a cheap eating-house in Covent Garden, I had paused for a moment at the corner.

      Next instant I felt a hearty slap on the back, and a cheery voice cried —

      “Why, Colkirk, old fellow, what’s up? You look as though you’re going to a funeral?”

      I turned quickly and saw a round, fresh-coloured, familiar face before me.

      “By Jove!” I exclaimed in pleasant surprise. “Raymond! is it really you?” And we grasped hands heartily.

      “I fancy so,” he laughed. “At least, it’s what there is left of me. I went out to Accra, you know, got a sharp touch of fever, and they only sent back my skeleton and skin.”

      Bob Raymond was always merry and amusing. He had been the humourist of Guy’s, in my time: the foremost in practical joking, and the most backward in learning. The despair of more than one eminent lecturer, he had, nevertheless, been one of the most popular fellows in our set, and had occupied diggings in the next house to where I lodged in a mean street off Newington Butts.

      “Well,” I laughed, “if you left your flesh behind you on the West Coast, you’ve filled out since. Why, you’re fatter than ever. What’s your beverage? Cod-liver oil?”

      “No; just now it’s whisky-and-seltzer with a big chunk of ice. Come into Romano’s and have one. You look as though you want cheering up.”

      I accepted his invitation, and we strolled back to the bar he had mentioned.

      He was a short, fair-haired, sturdily-built fellow with a round face which gave him the appearance of an overgrown boy, a pair of blue eyes that twinkled with good fellowship, cheeks that struck me as just a trifle too ruddy to be altogether healthy, a small mouth, and a tiny, drooping, yellow moustache. He wore a silk hat of brilliant gloss, a frock-coat, as became one of “the profession,” and carried in his hand a smart ebony cane with a silver crook. I noticed, as we stood at the bar, that his hat bulged slightly on either side, and knew that in it was concealed his stethoscope. He was therefore in practice.

      Over our drinks we briefly related our experiences, for we had both left the hospital at the same term, and had never met or heard of each other since. I told him of my drudgery, disappointment, and despair, to which he listened with sympathetic ear. Then he told me of himself. He had gone out to Accra, had a narrow squeak with a bad attack of fever, returned to London to recover, and became assistant to a well-known man at Plymouth.

      “And what are you doing now?” I inquired.

      “I’ve started a little practice over in Hammersmith,” he answered. “I’ve been there a year; but Hammersmith seems such a confoundedly healthy spot.”

      “You haven’t got many patients – eh?” I said, smiling.

      “Unfortunately, no. The red lamp doesn’t seem to attract them any more than the blue lamp before the police-station. If there was only a bit of zymotic disease, I might make a pound or two; but as it is, gout, indigestion, and drink seem to be the principal ailments at present.” Then he added, “But if you’re not doing anything, why don’t you come down and stay a day or two with me? I’m alone, and we’d be mutual company. In the meantime you might hear of something from the Lancet. Where’s your diggings?”

      I told him.

      “Then let’s go over there now and get your traps. Afterwards we can go home together. I’ve got cold mutton for supper. Hope you don’t object.”

      “Very digestible,” I remarked. And, after some persuasion, he at length prevailed upon me to accept his hospitality.

      He had established himself, I found, in the Rowan Road – a turning off the Hammersmith Road – in an ordinary-looking, ten-roomed house: one of those stereotyped ones with four hearth-stoned steps leading to the front door, and a couple of yards of unhealthy-looking, ill-kept grass between the bay window and the iron railings.

      The interior was comfortably furnished, for Bob was not wholly dependent upon his practice. His people were brewers at Bristol, and his allowance was ample. The dining-room was in front, while the room behind it was converted into a surgery with the regulation invalid’s couch, a case of secondhand books to lend the place an imposing air, and a small writing-table whereat my hospital chum wrote his rather erratic ordinances.

      Bob was a good fellow, and I spent a pleasant time with him. Old Mrs Bishop, his housekeeper, made me comfortable, and the whole day long my host would keep me laughing at his droll witticisms.

      Patients, however, were very few and far between.

      “You see, I’m like the men in Harley Street, my dear old chap,” he observed one day, “I’m only consulted as a last resource.”

      I did not feel quite comfortable in accepting his hospitality for more than a week; but when I announced my intention of departing he would not hear of it, and therefore I remained, each week eager for the publication of the Lancet with its lists of assistants wanted.

      I had been with him three weeks, and assisted him in his extremely small practice, for he sometimes sought my advice as to treatment. Poor old Bob! he was never a very brilliant one in his diagnoses. He always made it a rule to sound everybody, feel their pulses, press down their tongues and make them say, “Ah?”

      “Must do something for your money,” he would say when the patient had gone. “They like to be looked at in the mouth.”

      One afternoon, while we were sitting together smoking in his little den above the surgery, he made a sudden suggestion.

      “Do you know, Dick – I scarcely like to ask you – but I wonder whether you’d do me a favour?”

      “Most certainly, old chap,” I responded.

      “Even though you incur a great responsibility?”

      “What is the responsibility?”

      “A very grave one. To take charge of this extensive practice while I go down to Bristol and see my people. I haven’t been homesick a week.”

      “Why, of course,” I responded. “I’ll look after things with pleasure.”

      “Thanks. You’re a brick. I won’t be away for more than a week. You won’t find it very laborious. There’s a couple of kids with the croup round in Angel Road, a bedridden old girl in Bridge Road, and a man in Beadon Road who seems to have a perpetual stomach-ache. That’s about all.”

      I smiled. He had not attempted to diagnose the stomach-ache, I supposed. He was, indeed, a careless fellow.

      “Of course you’ll pocket all the fees,” he added, with a touch of grim humour. “They’re not very heavy – bobs and half-crowns – but they may keep you in tobacco till I come back.”

      And thus I became the locum tenens of the not too extensive practice of Robert Raymond, surgeon, for he departed for Paddington on the following evening, and I entered upon my somewhat lonely duties.

      The first couple of days passed without incident. I visited the two children with the croup, looked in upon the bedridden relict of a bibulous furniture-dealer, and examined the stomach with the perpetual pain. The latter proved a much more serious case than I had supposed, and from the first I saw that the poor fellow was suffering from an incurable disease. My visits only took an hour, and the rest of the day I spent in the little den upstairs, smoking furiously and reading.

      On the third morning, shortly before midday, just as I was thinking of going out to make my round of visits, an unusual incident occurred.

      I heard a cab stop outside, and a moment later