Tommy and Co. | Page 7

unseen
behind him, moved to and fro and in and out the little kitchen, there
came to Peter Hope this very curious experience: it felt to him as if for
a long time he had been ill--so ill as not even to have been aware of
it--and that now he was beginning to be himself again; consciousness

of things returning to him. This solidly furnished, long, oak-panelled
room with its air of old-world dignity and repose--this sober, kindly
room in which for more than half his life he had lived and worked--why
had he forgotten it? It came forward greeting him with an amused smile,
as of some old friend long parted from. The faded photos, in stiff,
wooden frames upon the chimney-piece, among them that of the fragile
little woman with the unadaptable lungs.
"God bless my soul!" said Mr. Peter Hope, pushing back his chair. "It's
thirty years ago. How time does fly! Why, let me see, I must be--"
"D'you like it with a head on it?" demanded Tommy, who had been
waiting patiently for signs.
Peter shook himself awake and went to his supper.
A bright idea occurred to Peter in the night. "Of course; why didn't I
think of it before? Settle the question at once." Peter fell into an easy
sleep.
"Tommy," said Peter, as he sat himself down to breakfast the next
morning. "By-the-by," asked Peter with a puzzled expression, putting
down his cup, "what is this?"
"Cauffee," informed him Tommy. "You said cauffee."
"Oh!" replied Peter. "For the future, Tommy, if you don't mind, I will
take tea of a morning."
"All the same to me," explained the agreeable Tommy, "it's your
breakfast."
"What I was about to say," continued Peter, "was that you're not
looking very well, Tommy."
"I'm all right," asserted Tommy; "never nothing the matter with me."
"Not that you know of, perhaps; but one can be in a very bad way,
Tommy, without being aware of it. I cannot have anyone about me that

I am not sure is in thoroughly sound health."
"If you mean you've changed your mind and want to get rid of me--"
began Tommy, with its chin in the air.
"I don't want any of your uppishness," snapped Peter, who had wound
himself up for the occasion to a degree of assertiveness that surprised
even himself. "If you are a thoroughly strong and healthy person, as I
think you are, I shall be very glad to retain your services. But upon that
point I must be satisfied. It is the custom," explained Peter. "It is
always done in good families. Run round to this address"--Peter wrote
it upon a leaf of his notebook--"and ask Dr. Smith to come and see me
before he begins his round. You go at once, and don't let us have any
argument."
"That is the way to talk to that young person--clearly," said Peter to
himself, listening to Tommy's footsteps dying down the stairs.
Hearing the street-door slam, Peter stole into the kitchen and brewed
himself a cup of coffee.
Dr. Smith, who had commenced life as Herr Schmidt, but who in
consequence of difference of opinion with his Government was now an
Englishman with strong Tory prejudices, had but one sorrow: it was
that strangers would mistake him for a foreigner. He was short and
stout, with bushy eyebrows and a grey moustache, and looked so fierce
that children cried when they saw him, until he patted them on the head
and addressed them as "mein leedle frent" in a voice so soft and tender
that they had to leave off howling just to wonder where it came from.
He and Peter, who was a vehement Radical, had been cronies for many
years, and had each an indulgent contempt for the other's understanding,
tempered by a sincere affection for one another they would have found
it difficult to account for.
"What tink you is de matter wid de leedle wench?" demanded Dr.
Smith, Peter having opened the case. Peter glanced round the room.
The kitchen door was closed.

"How do you know it's a wench?"
The eyes beneath the bushy brows grew rounder. "If id is not a wench,
why dress it--"
"Haven't dressed it," interrupted Peter. "Just what I'm waiting to do--so
soon as I know."
And Peter recounted the events of the preceding evening.
Tears gathered in the doctor's small, round eyes. His absurd
sentimentalism was the quality in his friend that most irritated Peter.
"Poor leedle waif!" murmured the soft-hearted old gentleman. "Id was
de good Providence dat guided her--or him, whichever id be."
"Providence be hanged!" snarled Peter. "What was my Providence
doing--landing me with a gutter-brat to look after?"
"So like you Radicals," sneered the doctor, "to despise a fellow human
creature just because id