But the human scum of which this Hooligan band was composed was not easily daunted. It was equal to almost any atrocity--any meanness. It could kick a policeman's head in, and steal his cape; it could waylay old men, rob them, and leave them half dead in the gutter. This scum could plan out its forays with deliberation and cunning. It could watch a man pace his way homewards on Monday and Tuesday, and let him go scatheless, but it would have him on Wednesday in some dark corner.
A less courageous man than Jim would have thrown up the sponge and retired to a safer neighbourhood. But Jim held on. They broke his red lamp and smashed his windows, but he merely requisitioned the services of a glazier, and hammered half the life out of a ruffian whom he found, a few nights later, about to put the knob of his stick through the new lamp. And so the Hooligans came to learn that the new doctor in Mount Street--the bearded man, curiously enough, they let severely alone--was made of about the sternest stuff they had ever encountered, and they saw that they would have to bide their time and watch most diligently for an opportunity to be revenged on him. But their desire to get even with him never abated. They were just waiting, and they knew they would not have to wait very long.
Jim used to reach the surgery in the morning about ten. Between one and two, or two and three--according to his engagements--he had his lunch at the emporium of Harris & Father, or at some other eating-house situated near his work. Tea was served to him (when he was there to have it) by an old dame whom he had engaged to look after the house and do the cleaning. This lady occupied a couple of the upper back rooms, for Mr Harris, losing no time in carrying out his hoarding scheme, had let off the upper walls of the front to a bill-posting firm, the result being that that portion of the ex-pawnbroking establishment which faced the street was soon covered with flaming placards drawing attention to whatever melodrama was being played at the local theatre. As Mr Harris had anticipated, these posters attracted much attention, and Mount Street wayfarers stopped constantly to gape at the thrilling scenes depicted in crude and aggressive colours above Jim's surgery. Not being aware of Mr Harris's responsibility for this display, Mount Street naturally conjectured that Jim Mortimer had let off the walls on his own account; and so, while some of its inhabitants expressed admiration for Jim's cuteness, others declared that a doctor ought to be above getting money in that way, adding that Taplow didn't descend to such catchpenny tricks, which showed that he could afford to do without them.
The posters were a source of constant amusement to Jim himself, and he took a keen interest in the weekly changes of the pictorial decoration of his outside walls. The men who came every Monday to paste up new "bills" soon got to know the young doctor, and one of them gruffly invited Jim to pay a call on his father-in-law, who seemed unable to throw off an obstinate attack of bronchitis. Jim promptly looked up the old man; after examining him, he stripped him to the skin and rubbed him all over with brandy. "It'll be all right," said Jim, "you'll see." And it was, for the fierce spirit drew out the inflammation, and within three days the bill-poster's father-in-law was able to go downstairs. The story of the cure, needless to say, was related in every public-house in the district--and from that hour more patients began to trickle into Mortimer's surgery.
Jim went home for dinner, but returned to his surgery directly the meal was over. One night, however, he did not go to the surgery, but, instead, stayed at No. 9 and helped Frank with his home-lessons. They had the dining-room to themselves, and were soon deeply immersed in the Rivers of Europe. Presently Dora peeped in--a little shyly, it seemed to Jim--and Frank sang out: "I say, Dora, this is a lark; come and see!"
For Jim had drawn a rough outline map of Europe, and Frank was filling in the countries and rivers, Jim holding the map proper before him and coaching his pupil with characteristic energy.
"It waggles there," Jim said, as, Dora having seated herself by her brother, Frank started on the Danube, "and now it goes straight on. Steady, man--you're making it run over a mountain. Now, waggle it a bit more. That's prime."
Frank enjoyed the lesson hugely, and presently Dora drew a river--the Rhine--and won much partial praise from Mr Mortimer.
After that Jim took Frank through his French verbs, Dora flagrantly prompting her brother, and from this they proceeded to English History, Jim giving Frank a racy description of James the Second's flight, and the causes leading up to it, which somehow stuck in Frank's head to such effect that on the following day he was awarded eighty marks out of a possible hundred, and greatly astonished his form-master by displaying such unusual evidences of industrious preparation.
It was a happy evening--Jim never remembered spending a happier--and Mortimer went to his work next day with a light heart and a most tender recollection of Dora drawing the course of a river very incorrectly.