as us!" Baby dismissed with a powder.

Item: Slow-spoken man with a jellied thumb. "Door jamb," he explains. "Want a stifficut. Works at the Brewery. Want another stifficut for the Insurance. 'Urry up. 'Ow much? Good-day."

Then an old woman came in—a very old woman, with rosy cheeks and a clean apron, and querulous, childish eyes.

"I want some morphium," she says, "to soothe meself down. Not that I got a right to look for much—at my age."

The doctor became jocular. "What!" he cried. "A fine woman like you? Morphia for you? What? With those cheeks? What?"

"I ain't got no happetite," said the old woman. "And there's shooting pains in me 'ead, and I don't sleep proper, and I seems to feel lonesome, and I wants some morphium to soothe meself down with."

"What's your favourite dinner dish?" inquired our inconsequent wag of a doctor.

"I ain't got no favourites," replied the woman. "I'm old, I am; what should I do with favourites at my age? I want some morphium to soothe meself down."

"What is your age—sixty?"

"I shall never see sixty again," said the woman. "Nor I shan't see seventy. Nor eighty. I'm old."

"And you mean to tell me," cried the doctor, with sudden heat, "that you do not care for tripe? Good tripe, mind you—tender tripe, very well boiled, with just a flavouring of onions?"

"And if I did," protested the woman, "who's to cook it for me? There's so many young women to get the favours now I find, and me so old. Can't I have a little morphium, Doctor: the brown mixture, ye know? To soothe meself down with."

"The young ones get the favouring, eh? Do you live with a young woman?"

"I lives with two on 'em—worse luck."

"Daughters?"

"Daughters? Me? No, sir. I'm a maiden, I am.... It's me landlady what I lives with."

"Doesn't she cook for you? I've got some tripe in the kitchen, and I thought—but, of course, if it can't be cooked, why—— What's all this about?"

The rosy-cheeked old maiden was crying, "I'm too old," she sobbed; "it's the young ones gets the favouring."

"Oh," said the doctor, "and so your landlady is unkind?"

"Not unkind, sir," said the woman, gently swallowing the doctor's bait; "she's a good woman, as they go, only I'm growed so old, and a young woman has come into our house, and I'm sorry to say, doctor, as she has 'leniated my landlady away from me. She is a young woman."

"Can't you get some other lodgings?" suggested the doctor. "You oughtn t to be neglected."

"I do not say I ham neglected, Doctor. That would be huntrue. I am not blaming anybody. I honly say I'm old. And this new lodger she's 'leniated my landlady away from me. She's young, you see. Well under seventy, she is."

They're all alike, these minxes," said the doctor, with a wistful smile.

"I got nothing to say agin her, mind you," protested the old woman. "Not agin neether. My landlady, she was very good and kind to me at one time; but now this young one 'ave come, and I ham sorry to say as she 'ave 'leniated my landlady away from me."

"I shouldn't fret about the matter, anyhow," suggested Dr. Brink. "You'll make friends with your landlady soon again; I'm sure you will."

"We was never bad friends," explained the woman. "We're friends to-day, on'y not sich friends, if you understand me. This new lodger, you see, she has 'leniated my landlady away from me. That's what it is. She 'ave leniated her. She's a young woman, you see! ... Will you give me some morphium, Doctor; just to soothe meself down with?"

The maiden got her morphia.

The maiden was succeeded by another woman—a mother. She carried a bundle, partly occupied by a baby. She was a lewd and dirty woman, and engaged my friend in the following dialogue.

FEMALE: I warra soothin' surrup for my baby yere. 'E's fidgety.

DOCTOR: How fidgety?

FEMALE: Well: look at the little blighter. 'E's got the blasted jumps.

DOCTOR: Of course he's got the jumps. He's dying.

FEMALE: Warra mean—dyin'?

DOCTOR: I mean that he will soon be dead.

FEMALE: Whaffor?

DOCTOR: Because he's starving.

FEMALE: Warra mean—starving?

DOCTOR: I mean that he is squirming mad from hunger. Breast fed, of course?

FEMALE: Warra mean, ye bleatin' image?

DOCTOR: Breast fed, of course?

FEMALE: Ye bleatin' image! 'Oo the 'ell you think you are?

DOCTOR: Breast fed, of course?

FEMALE (weeping wildly): Me starve my baby? Ow, ow, ow, ow!

DOCTOR: Breast fed, of course?

FEMALE: Ow, ow—why cert'nly 'e's breast fed! 'Ow else d'ye think a pore workin' woman's goin' ter manage? And 'im not five months old. And one of yere own deliveries. Cert'nly e's breast fed.

DOCTOR: That's the trouble, you see. No baby can be nourished on gin and stout. He's starving, I tell you.

FEMALE: And I tell ye it's a dirty lie. I'm for ever feedin' 'im. 'E's for ever worryin'. Sich a happetite this little beggar's got. Warra mean, me starve 'im? Warra mean, yere gin and beer? I suckle the little dear meself.

DOCTOR: And what do you feed yourself on?

FEMALE: That's my business, ain't it?

DOCTOR: It's my business, too. If you want that baby to live, you'd best look sharp and feed him. Get sober. I can't cure the baby. The only person who can cure him is yourself. And to do that you must leave off getting drunk. You must eat some decent food. You're living on alcohol at present. No baby can be nourished on gin and stout.

FEMALE: S'elp me Gawd, Doctor—s'elp me Gawd, young man, if I die this minute—s'elp me Gawd I ain't 'ad only two 'arf-pints since yisterday. I take them a-purpose for the boy's own sake, young man. 'E don't seem to fancy it, some'ow, unless I 'as me drop o' stout. See what I mean, Doctor? I takes what I do for the baby's own sake: 'e will 'ave it, bless 'is little 'eart.