“But what for?” he demanded.
“Oh, I didn’t go in intentionally,” I replied; and then I gave him a sketch of the incident, as short as I could make it, for my teeth were chattering and explanations were chilly work. However, he rose nobly to the occasion. “You’ll catch your death of cold!” he exclaimed, starting up. “Come in here, and slip off your things at once, while I go for some blankets.”
He led me into a little den behind the shop, and, having lighted a gas fire, went out by a back door. I lost no time in peeling off my dripping clothes, and by the time that he returned I was in a state in which I ought to have been when I took my plunge.
“Here you are,” said he. “Put on this dressing-gown and wrap yourself in the blankets. We’ll draw this chair up to the fire, and then you will be all right for the present.”
I followed his directions, pouring out my thanks as well as my chattering teeth would let me.
“Oh, that’s all right,” said he. “If you will empty your pockets, the missus can put some of the things through the wringer, and then they’ll soon dry. There happens to be a good fire in the kitchen; some advance cooking on account of the funeral. You can dry your hat and boots here. If anyone comes to the shop you might just press that electric bell-push.”
When he had gone, I drew the Windsor armchair close to the fire and made myself as comfortable as I could, dividing my attention between my hat and my boots, which called for careful roasting, and the contents of the room. The latter appeared to be a sort of store for the reserve stock-in-trade, and certainly this was a most amazing collection. I could not see a single article for which I would have given sixpence. The array on the shelves suggested that the shop had been stocked with the sweepings of all the stalls in Market Street, with those of Shoreditch High Street thrown in. As I ran my eye along the ranks of dial-less clocks, cracked fiddles, stopperless decanters, and tattered theological volumes, I found myself speculating profoundly on how Mr. Morris made a livelihood. He professed to be a “dealer in antiques,” and there was assuredly no question as to the antiquity of the goods in this room. But there is little pecuniary value in the kind of antiquity that is unearthed from a dust bin.
It was really rather mysterious. Mr. Morris was a somewhat superior man, and he did not appear to be poor. Yet this shop did not seem capable of yielding an income that would have been acceptable to a ragpicker. And during the whole of the time in which I sat warming myself, there was not a single visitor to the shop. However, it was no concern of mine; and I had just reached this sage conclusion when Mr. Morris returned with my clothes.
“There,” he said, “they are very creased and disreputable, but they are quite dry. They would have had to be cleaned and pressed, in any case.”
With this he went out into the shop and resumed his filing, while I put on the stiff and crumpled garments. When I was dressed, I followed him and thanked him effusively for his kind offices, leaving also a grateful message for his wife. He took my thanks rather stolidly, and having wished me “good night,” picked up his file and fell to work again.
I decided to walk home; principally, I think, to avoid exhibiting myself in a public vehicle. But my self-consciousness soon wore off, and when, in the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell, I perceived Dr. Usher, on the opposite side of the street, I crossed the road and touched his arm. He looked round quickly, and, recognizing me, shook hands cordially.
“What are you doing on my beat at this time of night?” he asked. “You are not still at Cornish’s, are you?”
“Yes,” I answered, “but not for long. I have just made my last visit and signed the death certificate.”
“Good man,” said he. “Very methodical. Nothing like finishing a case up neatly. They didn’t invite you to the funeral, I suppose?”
“No,” I replied, “and I shouldn’t have gone if they had.”
“Quite right,” he agreed. “Funerals are rather outside medical practice. But you have to go sometimes. Policy, you know. I had to go to one the day before yesterday. Beastly nuisance it was. Chappie would insist on putting me down at my own door in the mourning coach. Meant well, of course, but it was very awkward. All the neighbours came to their shop doors and grinned as I got out. Felt an awful fool; couldn’t grin back, you see. Had to keep up the farce to the end.”
“I don’t see that it was exactly a farce,” I objected.
“That is because you weren’t there,” he retorted. “It was the silliest exhibition you ever saw. Just think of it! The parson who ran the show had actually got a lot of schoolchildren to stand round the grave and sing a blooming hymn: ‘Safe in the arms of’—you know the confounded doggerel.”
“Well, why not?” I protested. “I daresay the friends of the deceased liked it.”
“No doubt,” said he. “I expect they put the parson up to it. But it was sickening to hear those kids bleating that stuff. How did they know where he was—an old rip with malignant disease of the pancreas, too!”
“Really, Usher!” I exclaimed, laughing at his quaint cynicism, “you are unreasonable. There are no pathological disqualifications for the better land, I hope.”
“I suppose not,” he agreed, with a grin. “Don’t have to show a clean bill of health before they let you in. But it was a trying business, you must admit. I hate cant of that sort; and yet one had to pull a long face and
