Tommy and Co. Джером К. Джером
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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 may not have been born in burble and fine linen.”
“I didn’t send for you to argue politics,” retorted Peter, controlling his indignation by an effort. “I want you to tell me whether it’s a boy or a girl, so that I may know what to do with it.”
“What mean you to do wid id?” inquired the doctor.
“I don’t know,” confessed Peter. “If it’s a boy, as I rather think it is, maybe I’ll be able to find it a place in one of the offices—after I’ve taught it a little civilisation.”
“And if id be a girl?”
“How can it be a girl when it wears trousers?” demanded Peter. “Why anticipate difficulties?”
Peter, alone, paced to and fro the room, his hands behind his back, his ear on the alert to catch the slightest sound from above.
“I do hope it is a boy,” said Peter, glancing up.
Peter’s eyes rested on the photo of the fragile little woman gazing down at him from its stiff frame upon the chimney-piece. Thirty years ago, in this same room, Peter had paced to and fro, his hands behind his back, his ear alert to catch the slightest sound from above, had said to himself the same words.
“It’s odd,” mused Peter—“very odd indeed.”
The door opened. The stout doctor, preceded at a little distance by his watch-chain, entered and closed the door behind him.
“A very healthy child,” said the doctor, “as fine a child as any one could wish to see. A girl.”
The two old gentlemen looked at one another. Elizabeth, possibly relieved in her mind, began to purr.
“What am I to do with it?” demanded Peter.
“A very awkward bosition for you,” agreed the sympathetic doctor.
“I was a fool!” declared Peter.
“You haf no one here to look after de leedle wench when you are away,” pointed out the thoughtful doctor.
“And from what I’ve seen of the imp,” added Peter, “it will want some looking after.”
“I tink—I tink,” said the helpful doctor, “I see a way out!”
“What?”
The doctor thrust his fierce face forward and tapped knowingly with his right forefinger the right side of his round nose. “I will take charge of de leedle wench.”
“You?”
“To me de case will not present de same difficulties. I haf a housekeeper.”
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Whateley.”
“She is a goot woman when you know her,” explained the doctor. “She only wants managing.”
“Pooh!” ejaculated Peter.
“Why do you say dat?” inquired the doctor.
“You! bringing up a headstrong girl. The idea!”
“I should be kind, but firm.”
“You don’t know her.”
“How long haf you known her?”
“Anyhow, I’m not a soft-hearted sentimentalist that would just ruin the child.”
“Girls are not boys,” persisted the doctor; “dey want different treatment.”
“Well, I’m not a brute!” snarled Peter. “Besides, suppose she turns out rubbish! What do you know about her?”
“I take my chance,” agreed the generous doctor.
“It wouldn’t be fair,” retorted honest Peter.
“Tink it over,” said the doctor. “A place is never home widout de leedle feet. We Englishmen love de home. You are different. You haf no sentiment.”
“I cannot help feeling,” explained Peter, “a sense of duty in this matter. The child came to me. It is as if this thing had been laid upon me.”
“If you look upon id dat way, Peter,” sighed the doctor.
“With sentiment,” went on Peter, “I have nothing to do; but duty—duty is quite another thing.” Peter, feeling himself an ancient Roman, thanked the doctor and shook hands with him.
Tommy, summoned, appeared.
“The doctor, Tommy,” said Peter, without looking up from his writing, “gives a very satisfactory account of you. So you can stop.”
“Told you so,” returned Tommy. “Might have saved your money.”
“But we shall have to find you another name.”
“What for?”
“If you are to be a housekeeper, you must be a girl.”
“Don’t like girls.”
“Can’t say I think much of them myself, Tommy. We must make the best of it. To begin with, we must get you proper clothes.”
“Hate skirts. They hamper you.”
“Tommy,” said Peter severely, “don’t argue.”
“Pointing out facts ain’t arguing,” argued Tommy. “They do hamper you. You try ’em.”
The clothes were quickly made, and after a while they came to fit; but the name proved more difficult of adjustment. A sweet-faced, laughing lady, known to fame by a title respectable and orthodox, appears an honoured guest to-day at many a literary gathering. But the old fellows, pressing round, still call her “Tommy.”
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