than off he bolted -- leaving me as much in the dark as ever. I tried to get some information from the womenfolk about the earlier stages of the complaint; but not one was capable of giving a connected answer . . . . I'd sent the other young fellow off for leeches and the barber. Young Leonard lay convulsed and insensible. And yet, if you'll believe me, Robinson had been telling them it was gastric, and plying him with brandy. Inflammation of the membranes of the brain, Mary! -- and the fool killing him with stimulants. While I was making mustard poultices for his feet and legs, back comes Robinson and attempts to feel his pulse. I said: 'Now look here, my good man, if you don't give me some particulars of this case, I shall proceed to treat it without you.' He answered not a word. Then I turned to her. 'Now, madam,' said I, 'I'm not going to stand this. Either he or I must leave the room -- or indeed the house -- and, until you decide which, I go downstairs.' She followed, all but clawing at my coat. He lurches after us, shouting abuse. . . for the whole house to hear. And what, pray, do you think he said? . . . amongst other scurrilous trash. 'Very well, if you prefer the opinion of this old quack to mine, take it and abide by the consequences. Australia! We all knows what that means. Ask him what other trades he's plied there. Make him turn out his credentials.' It was as much as I could do to keep from knocking him down. Only the thought of the lad upstairs restrained me. She was very humble and apologetic, of course; besought me to take no notice; almost grovelled to me to save her son, etc. etc. I made short work of her, though."
"Besides, you can surely afford to smile at such nonsense, Richard?" Mary strove to soothe him. " It would be beneath your dignity to notice it. Especially as he wasn't himself." Distressed though she felt at this return for Richard's kindness, Mary was also unpleasantly worked on by his interlarded "My good man!" and the general hoity-toity air of his narration. What a peppery fellow he was! How could he ever expect to succeed and be popular? That kind of tone would not go down here.
"I make allowance for his condition . . . of course I do . . . but all the same it does not incline me, my dear . . . If such are the tales that are going the round about me, Mary -- charlatan and quack, a colonial ne'er-do-well trading on a faked diploma and so on; if it's a blot on my reputation to have lived and practised in the colonies, instead of mouldering my life away in this miserable village -- then much is explained that has been dark to me. Anyhow, it came over me with a rush to-night: I go from here. They don't want me; I'm not good enough for them -- a man who has held a first-class practice in the second city of Victoria not good enough for the torpid livers of Buddlecombe! Very well, let them get some one else . . . I'm done with 'em. Really, Mary, I sometimes feel so sick and tired of the struggle that I fancy throwing up medicine altogether. What would you say, love, to taking a small cottage somewhere and living modestly on the little we have?"
Now what would he say next? wondered Mary with an inward sigh. But the present was not the moment to combat such vagaries. Richard was sore and smarting; and in this mood he just tossed off suggestions without thinking; letting his anger out in them as the hole in the lid of a kettle lets out steam. So she only said: "Let us first see what happens here. Is there any chance of Lenny Challoner recovering?"
"Frankly, I don't think there is. I give him till the coming midnight. He'll probably die between then and dawn."
But this prediction was not fulfilled. The boy weathered the night; and after sixty hours' unconsciousness spoke to those about him, though with wandering wits.
Buddlecombe was all a-twitter and agog: the affair was discussed over counters by tradesmen and goodwives; at mahogany dinner-tables; in the oaken settles of inns. Every one knew
"Besides, you can surely afford to smile at such nonsense, Richard?" Mary strove to soothe him. " It would be beneath your dignity to notice it. Especially as he wasn't himself." Distressed though she felt at this return for Richard's kindness, Mary was also unpleasantly worked on by his interlarded "My good man!" and the general hoity-toity air of his narration. What a peppery fellow he was! How could he ever expect to succeed and be popular? That kind of tone would not go down here.
"I make allowance for his condition . . . of course I do . . . but all the same it does not incline me, my dear . . . If such are the tales that are going the round about me, Mary -- charlatan and quack, a colonial ne'er-do-well trading on a faked diploma and so on; if it's a blot on my reputation to have lived and practised in the colonies, instead of mouldering my life away in this miserable village -- then much is explained that has been dark to me. Anyhow, it came over me with a rush to-night: I go from here. They don't want me; I'm not good enough for them -- a man who has held a first-class practice in the second city of Victoria not good enough for the torpid livers of Buddlecombe! Very well, let them get some one else . . . I'm done with 'em. Really, Mary, I sometimes feel so sick and tired of the struggle that I fancy throwing up medicine altogether. What would you say, love, to taking a small cottage somewhere and living modestly on the little we have?"
Now what would he say next? wondered Mary with an inward sigh. But the present was not the moment to combat such vagaries. Richard was sore and smarting; and in this mood he just tossed off suggestions without thinking; letting his anger out in them as the hole in the lid of a kettle lets out steam. So she only said: "Let us first see what happens here. Is there any chance of Lenny Challoner recovering?"
"Frankly, I don't think there is. I give him till the coming midnight. He'll probably die between then and dawn."
But this prediction was not fulfilled. The boy weathered the night; and after sixty hours' unconsciousness spoke to those about him, though with wandering wits.
Buddlecombe was all a-twitter and agog: the affair was discussed over counters by tradesmen and goodwives; at mahogany dinner-tables; in the oaken settles of inns. Every one knew
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