The Lunatic at Large | Page 2

a tall bottle with a Celtic superscription; Welsh half filled his glass, poured in some water from a dusty decanter, and proposed the toast of "Luck to the two most deserving sinners in London!"
The doctor was fired, he drew the same letter from his pocket, and cried, "By Jove, Welsh, I'd almost forgotten to tell you of a lucky offer that came this morning."
This was not strictly true, for as a matter of fact the doctor had only hesitated to tell of this offer lest he should be shamed to a decision. But Welsh was infectious.
"Congratulations, old man!" said his friend. "What's it all about?"
"Here's a letter from an old friend of my people's--Dr Watson, by name. He has a very good country practice, and he offers me this job."
He handed the letter to Welsh, and then added, with a flutter of caution, "I haven't made up my mind yet. There are drawbacks, as you'll see."
Welsh opened the letter and read:--
"DEAR TWIDDEL,--I am happy to tell you that I am at last able to put something in your way. A gentleman in this neighbourhood, one of my most esteemed patients, has lately suffered from a severe mental and physical shock, followed by brain fever, and is still, I regret to say, in an extremely unstable mental condition. I have strongly recommended quiet and change of scene, and at my suggestion he is to be sent abroad under the care of a medical attendant. I have now much pleasure in offering you the post, if you would care to accept it. You will find your patient, Mr Mandell-Essington, an extremely agreeable young man when in possession of his proper faculties. He has large means and no near relatives; he comes of one of the best families in the county; and though he has, I surmise, sown his wild oats pretty freely, he was considered of unusual promise previous to this unfortunate illness. He is of an amiable and pleasant disposition, though at present, we fear, inclined to suicidal tendencies. I have no particular reason to think he is at all homicidal; still, you will see that he naturally requires most careful watching. It is possible that you may hesitate to leave your practice (which I trust prospers); but as the responsibility is considerable, the fee will be proportionately generous--￡500, and all expenses paid."
("Five hundred quid!" exclaimed Welsh.)
"I would suggest a trip on the Continent. The duration and the places to be visited will be entirely at your discretion. It is of course hardly necessary to say that you will seek quiet localities. Trusting to hear from you at your very earliest convenience, believe me, yours sincerely,
TIMOTHY WATSON."
Welsh looked at his friend with the respect that prosperity naturally excites. He smiled on him as an equal, and cried, heartily, "Congratulations again! When do you start?"
Twiddel fidgeted uncomfortably, "I--er--well, you see--ah--I haven't quite made up my mind yet."
"What's the matter?"
"Hang it, Welsh--er--the fact is I don't altogether like the job."
Scruples of any kind always surprised Welsh.
"Can't afford to leave the practice?" he asked with a laugh.
"That's--ah--partly the reason," replied Twiddel, uncomfortably.
"Rot, old man! There's a girl in the case. Out with it!"
"No, it isn't that. You see it's the very devil of a responsibility."
At this confession of weakness he looked guiltily at his heroic friend. From the bottom of his heart he wished he had screwed up his courage in private. Welsh had so little imagination.
"By Gad," exclaimed Welsh, "I'd manage a nunnery for ￡500!"
"I daresay you would, but a suicidal, and possibly homicidal, lunatic isn't a nunnery."
Welsh looked at his friend with diminished respect.
"Then you are going to chuck up ￡500 and a free trip on the Continent?" he said.
"Dr Watson himself admits the responsibility."
"With a--what is it?--agreeable young man?"
"Only when in possession of his proper faculties," said the doctor, dismally.
"And an amiable disposition?"
"With suicidal tendencies, hang it!"
"I should have thought," said Welsh, with a laugh, "that they would only matter to himself."
"But he is homicidal too--or at least it's doubtful. I want to know a little more about that, thank you!"
"What is the man's name?"
"Mandell-Essington."
"Sounds aristocratic. He might come in useful afterwards, when he's cured."
Welsh spoke with an air of reflection, which might have been entirely disinterested.
"He'd probably commit suicide first," said Twiddel, "and of course I'd get all the blame."
"Or homicide," replied Welsh, "When he would."
"No, he wouldn't--that's the worst of it; I'd be blamed for having my own throat cut."
"Twiddel," said his friend, deliberately, "it seems to me you're a fool."
"I'm at least alive," cried Twiddel, warming with sympathy for himself, "which I probably wouldn't be for long in Mr Essington's company."
"I don't blame your nerves, dear boy," said Welsh, with a smile that showed all his teeth, "only your head. Here are ￡500 going a-begging. There must be