Mr. Dawkins then examined the doctor's forceps and apostrophised the trophy which they still held. "Ache away, ye beggar!" he exclaimed. "Who's laughin' now? ... What I got to pay you, Doctor?"
"One shilling altogether," replied the doctor.
Mr. Dawkins flung down half-a-crown.
"Take it out of that," he cried. "I never paid a bob more 'earty. Nor I never met a genelman as was nicer spoken nor 'andier. And when I make me mind up in regards to this leg I'll bring it round to you. Me and my family is noted for our limbs. There's a uncle o' mine what 'ad a bone took out o' 'is ankle what they keeps in a bottle at Guy's 'Orspital to this day. Comin' out to 'ave one, Doctor? It's my birthday."
The doctor regretted that professional engagements previously entered into prevented him from accepting the very kind invitation of Mr. Dawkins. He also handed that gentleman his change and a small packet of tissue-paper which contained the tooth—the latter offertory being based upon an immemorial custom of the spot-cash trade.
And Mr. Dawkins expressed his gratitude in song, and Mr. Dawkins's bodyguard assisted in the swelling chorus thereof. And as Doctor Brink shook hands with each in turn and received their oft-repeated praises, he returned to the question which was still unanswered.
"How did that head get cracked, Mr. Dawkins? A slight dispute, eh?"
"Dispute!" echoed Mr. Dawkins. "Me? On me birthday? Why I bin sittin' in the 'Four Soldiers' as gentle as a clurk from two o'clock this arternoon. Ain't that right, mates?"
"Certainly. What 'e's tellin' you is right, sir," confirmed the bodyguard.
"Not even a friendly spar?" queried the puzzled doctor.