Sometimes Gordon Venables wondered whether it was only for this that he had been the most notable student of his year at St. Bartholomew's. His brilliance, indeed, had caused something of a sensation in medical circles, and a remarkable career had been prophesied for him. It was Venables who had broken up one Suffrage meeting after another by throwing white mice at the women on the platform; who day after day had paraded London dressed in the costume of a brown dog, until arrested for biting an anti-vivisector in the leg. No wonder that all the prizes of the profession were announced to be within his grasp, and that when he buried himself in the little country town of Mudford he was thought to have thrown away recklessly opportunities such as were granted to few.
He had been in Mudford for five years now. An occasional paper in The Lancet on "The Recurrence of Anthro-philomelitis in Earth-worms" kept him in touch with modern medical thought, but he could not help feeling that to some extent his powers were rusting in Mudford. As the years went on his chance of Harley Street dwindled.
"Come in," he said in answer to a knock at the door.
The housekeeper's head appeared.
"There's been an accident, sir," she gasped. "Gentleman run over!"
He snatched up his stethoscope and, without even waiting to inquire where the accident was, hurried into the night. Something whispered to him that his chance had come.
After a quarter of an hour he stopped a small boy.
"Hallo, Johnny," he said breathlessly, "where's the accident?"
The boy looked at him with open mouth for some moments. Then he had an idea.
"Why, it's Doctor!" he said.