We are all treasure-seekers set on a treasure-island
in a boundless sea. Cruelly marooned we are—flung
ashore without appeal, and here deserted until the
ship that disembarked us suddenly swoops and the press-gang
snatches us again aboard—again without heed
to our desire. Whence the ship brought us we
do not know, and whither it will carry us we do not
know; there is none to prick a return voyage disclosing
the ultimate haven, though pilots there be who pretend
to the knowledge—we cannot test them.
But the marooners, when they land us, give us wherewith
to occupy our thoughts. This is a treasure-island.
Each man of us they land with a pick; the inhabitants
tell us of the treasure, and, being acclimatised,
we set to work to dig and delve. Some work in
shafts already sunk, some seek to break new ground,
but what the pick will next turn up no one knows.
And it is this uncertainty, this hazard, that keeps
us hammer, hammer, hammering; that keeps us, some
from brooding against the marooners, their wanton
desertion of us, our ultimate fate at their hands;
others from making ready against the return voyage
as entreated by the pilots.
Certainly, when the pick strikes a pocket, we turn
to carousing; cease cocking a timid eye at the horizon.
And now our heroine is beckoning.
Magnificent Arrival Of A Heroine.
Until three o’clock George sat in an operating
theatre. An unimportant case was in process:
occasionally, through the group of dressers, surgeons
and nurses who filled the floor, George caught a glimpse
of the subject. He watched moodily, too occupied
with his thoughts—three more months of
dependency—to take greater interest.
One other student was present. Peacefully he
slumbered by George’s side until the ring of
a dropped forceps awakened him. Noting the cause,
“Clumsy beast,” said this Mr. Franklyn;
and to George: “Come on, Leicester; my
slumber is broken. Let’s go for a stroll
up West.”
In Oxford Street a pretty waitress in a tea-shop drew
Mr. Franklyn’s eye; a drop of rain whacked his
nose. He winked the eye; wiped the nose.
“Tea,” said he; “it is going to rain.”
He addressed the pretty waitress: “I have
no wish to seem inquisitive, but which table do you
attend?”
The girl jerked her chin: “What’s
that to you?”
“So much,” Mr. Franklyn earnestly told
her, “that, until I know, here, beautiful but
inconvenient, in the doorway I stand.”
“Well, all of ’em.” She whisked
away.
“You’re badly snubbed, Franklyn,”
George said. “This rain is nothing.”
A summer shower crashed down as he spoke; a mob of
shoppers, breathless for shelter, drove them inwards.
“George,” said Mr. Franklyn, seating himself,
“your base mind thinks I have designs on this
girl. I grieve at so distorted a fancy. The
child says prettily that she attends ’all of
’em.’ It is a gross case of overwork
into which I feel it my duty more closely to inquire.”
