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Updated: May 13, 2025
"To see me?" "What else should I come for? Do you suppose that I called to consult the bottle-boy?" "Certainly not, Miss Oman. So you find the lady doctor no use, after all?" "I called," she said majestically, "on behalf of Miss Bellingham." My facetiousness evaporated instantly. "I hope Miss Bellingham is not ill," I said with a sudden anxiety that elicited a sardonic smile from Miss Oman.
And she continued: "I called in at the surgery just now." "To see me?" "What else should I come for? Do you suppose that I called to consult the bottle-boy?" "Certainly not, Miss Oman. So you find the lady doctor no use, after all?" "I called," she said majestically, "on behalf of Miss Bellingham." My facetiousness evaporated instantly.
As to the surgery, with its oilcloth floor and walls made hideous with gaudy insurance show-cards in sham gilt frames, its aspect was so revolting that I flew to the day-book for distraction, and was still busily entering the morning's visits when the bottle-boy, Adolphus, entered stealthily to announce lunch.
Gloomily wondering whether the Black Death had made a sudden reappearance in England, I hurried to the dining-room and made a hasty breakfast, interrupted at intervals by the apparition of the bottle-boy to announce new messages. The first two or three visits solved the mystery.
And at that moment, in the midst of my regrets, the bottle-boy thrust an uncomely head in at the door. His voice was coarse, his accent was hideous, and his grammatical construction beneath contempt; but I forgave him all when I gathered the import of his message. "Mr. Weiss's carriage is waiting, and he says will you come as quickly as you can because he's took very bad to-night."
Sweeps, labourers, milkmen, costermongers all were impartially invested by the democratic bottle-boy with the rank and title of <i>armigeri</i>. The present nobleman appeared to favour the aristocratic recreation of driving a cab or job-master's carriage, and, as he entered the room, he touched his hat, closed the door somewhat carefully, and then, without remark, handed me a note which bore the superscription "Dr.
Too tired to stand longer, he sits down on the shafts of a cart, and tries not to think. It is not difficult. Body and mind are alike worn out, and his brain seems filled with uniform dull mist. A shop-door opens in front of him; a boy comes out. He sees bottles inside, and shelves, the look of which he knows too well. The bottle-boy, whistling, begins to take the shutters down.
When I came downstairs and took a preliminary glance at the rough memorandum-book, kept by the bottle-boy, or, in his absence, by the housemaid, I stood aghast. The morning's entries looked already like a sample page of the Post Office directory. The new calls alone were more than equal to an ordinary day's work, and the routine visits remained to be added.
Another minute and I could turn down the surgery gas and shut the outer door. The fussy little clock gave a sort of preliminary cough or hiccup, as if it should say: "Ahem! ladies and gentlemen, I am about to strike." And at that moment, the bottle-boy opened the door and, thrusting in his head, uttered the one word: "Gentleman." Extreme economy of words is apt to result in ambiguity.
As to the surgery, with its oilcloth floor and walls made hideous with gaudy insurance show-cards in sham gilt frames, its aspect was so revolting that I flew to the day-book for distraction, and was still busily entering the morning's visits when the bottle-boy, Adolphus, entered stealthily to announce lunch.
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