"I—I don't believe in—in auctioneers," said Baffin, blinking.
"I know you down't," responded Prudence. "But I want to know your opinion of bookmakers—this time."
XXXVI
A BIRTHDAY PARTY
I was sitting on the gas-stove in Dr. Brink's refectory when Mr. William Dawkins entered the consulting-room. And having applied my eye to the squint-hole so thoughtfully provided by Dr. Brink for the education of his guests, I was able to view and rejoice in the arrival of Mr. Dawkins.
That gentleman's "entrance," as they say in the Strand, was decidedly impressive. He came in under the escort of three cronies, and he was wearing a white waistcoat and a smile and a blood-stained head. He was singing.
"Did you collect all this by the side of the Zuyder Zee?" inquired the doctor, in his softest bedside voice.
The patient offered no reply to this question; but smiling, oh, so happily, he continued to pour forth the fresh, glad notes of his voluntary. The largest and dirtiest member of the escort, feeling, evidently, that the circumstances demanded explanation, was accordingly so kind as to offer it.
"This," he said, "is Bill Dawkins. Young Bill Dawkins, you know: 'im what works at the coal-wharf."
The doctor bowed. "Bill is a hearty fellow," he said, "and his head has been banged about damned awful, and you have not introduced me to him a moment too soon. I shall have to stitch that forehead."