"My friend Taplow--'the ladies' doctor' they call him--has a surgery over the water. As you may know, it's not an uncommon thing for a man with a fat West-end practice to run a shilling and six-penny shop in the slums. Anything for money, Mortimer! Well, as I said, he's got a surgery over the water--in the Blackfriars district--and he wants a man to look after it. He'll pay about a hundred and twenty a year. Any good to you?"
"Better than living on air," said Jim.
"Experience, too," continued Sir Savile; "heaps. It's a rough, poverty-stricken quarter--very rough. You'll make acquaintance with the masses. The man lately in charge of the place was not quite up to the work--too old. And he was unfortunate in his end----"
"End!" said Jim. "Is he dead, then?"
"Dead as a door-nail."
"What did he die of?" queried Jim.
"Boots and knives. He was killed by Hooligans."
The Long 'Un opened his eyes wide.
"Perhaps," said Sir Savile, "you will now think that even living on air is better than risking one's chances of living on anything?"
"Not at all, sir," said Jim, stoutly; "I'm quite willing to take it on."