They settled that Philip should fetch Cronshaw next
day, and Philip snatched an hour from his busy morning
to arrange the change. He found Cronshaw dressed,
sitting in his hat and great-coat on the bed, with
a small, shabby portmanteau, containing his clothes
and books, already packed: it was on the floor
by his feet, and he looked as if he were sitting in
the waiting-room of a station. Philip laughed
at the sight of him. They went over to Kennington
in a four-wheeler, of which the windows were carefully
closed, and Philip installed his guest in his own room.
He had gone out early in the morning and bought for
himself a second-hand bedstead, a cheap chest of drawers,
and a looking-glass. Cronshaw settled down at
once to correct his proofs. He was much better.
Philip found him, except for the irritability which
was a symptom of his disease, an easy guest.
He had a lecture at nine in the morning, so did not
see Cronshaw till the night. Once or twice Philip
persuaded him to share the scrappy meal he prepared
for himself in the evening, but Cronshaw was too restless
to stay in, and preferred generally to get himself
something to eat in one or other of the cheapest restaurants
in Soho. Philip asked him to see Dr. Tyrell,
but he stoutly refused; he knew a doctor would tell
him to stop drinking, and this he was resolved not
to do. He always felt horribly ill in the morning,
but his absinthe at mid-day put him on his feet again,
and by the time he came home, at midnight, he was
able to talk with the brilliancy which had astonished
Philip when first he made his acquaintance. His
proofs were corrected; and the volume was to come
out among the publications of the early spring, when
the public might be supposed to have recovered from
the avalanche of Christmas books.
LXXXIV
At the new year Philip became dresser in the surgical
out-patients’ department. The work was
of the same character as that which he had just been
engaged on, but with the greater directness which surgery
has than medicine; and a larger proportion of the
patients suffered from those two diseases which a
supine public allows, in its prudishness, to be spread
broadcast. The assistant-surgeon for whom Philip
dressed was called Jacobs. He was a short, fat
man, with an exuberant joviality, a bald head, and
a loud voice; he had a cockney accent, and was generally
described by the students as an `awful bounder’;
but his cleverness, both as a surgeon and as a teacher,
caused some of them to overlook this. He had also
a considerable facetiousness, which he exercised impartially
on the patients and on the students. He took
a great pleasure in making his dressers look foolish.
Since they were ignorant, nervous, and could not answer
as if he were their equal, this was not very difficult.
He enjoyed his afternoons, with the home truths he
permitted himself, much more than the students who
had to put up with them with a smile. One day
a case came up of a boy with a club-foot. His
parents wanted to know whether anything could be done.
Mr. Jacobs turned to Philip.
