“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 join in the beastly chorus.”
The picture that his last words suggested was too much for my gravity. I laughed long and joyously. However, Usher was not offended; indeed, I suspect that he appreciated the humour of the situation as much as I did. But he had trained himself to an outward solemnity of manner that was doubtless a valuable asset in his particular class of practice, and he walked at my side in unmoved gravity, taking an occasional, quick, critical look at me. When we came to the parting of our ways he once more shook my hand warmly and delivered a little farewell speech.
“You’ve never been to see me, Gray. Haven’t had time, I suppose. But when you are free you might look me up one evening to have a smoke and a glass and talk over old times. There’s always a bit of grub going, you know.”
I promised to drop in before long, and he then added: “I gave you one or two tips when I saw you last. Now I’m going to give you another. Never neglect your appearance. It’s a great mistake. Treat yourself with respect and the world will respect you. No need to be a dandy. But just keep an eye on your tailor and your laundress—especially your laundress. Clean collars don’t cost much and they pay; and so does a trousers press. People expect a doctor to be well turned out. Now you mustn’t think me impertinent. We are old pals and I want you to get on. So long, old chap. Look me up as soon as you can”; and without giving me the opportunity to reply, he turned about and bustled off, swinging his umbrella and offering, perhaps, a not very impressive illustration of his own excellent precepts. But his words served as a reminder which caused me to pursue the remainder of my journey by way of side-streets neither too well lighted nor too much frequented.