Murchison said nothing, but passed on. His face had a white, drawn look, and he seemed to move half-blindly, like a man exhausted by a long march in the sun.
Tugler looked at him curiously, frowned, and then rattled off a string of directions to an old woman seated beside him, her red hands clutching the old leather bag in her lap.
“Medicine three times a day—before meals. Drop the drink. Regular food. Come again next week. Shilling? That’s right. Next—please.”
The old woman’s sodden face still poked itself towards the doctor with senile eagerness.
“I ’ope you won’t be minding me, sir, but this ’ere—”
Dr. Tugler became suddenly deaf.
“Next, please.”
There was something in the atmosphere suggestive of a barber’s shop. A robust collier was already waiting for the old lady to vacate her chair.
“I was goin’ to ask you, doctor—”
“This time next week. We’re busy. Good-morning, Smith; sit down.”