“I should like the pounding,” replied Jan.

“The pounding!” reiterated Lady Verner, in astonishment.

“I should like it altogether,” concluded Jan, “I wish you’d let me go apprentice to Dr. West.”

Jan held to his liking.  In due course of time he was apprenticed to Dr. West, and pounded away to his heart’s content.  Thence he went to London to walk the hospitals, afterwards completing his studies in Paris.  It was at the latter period that the accident happened to Jan that called Lionel to Paris.  Jan was knocked down by a carriage in the street, his leg broken, and he was otherwise injured.  Time and skill cured him.  Time and perseverance completed his studies, and Jan became a licensed surgeon of no mean skill.  He returned to Deerham, and was engaged as assistant to Dr. West.  No very ambitious position, but “it’s good enough for Jan,” slightingly said Lady Verner.  Jan probably thought the same, or he would have sought a better.  He was four-and-twenty now.  Dr. West was a general practitioner, holding an Edinburgh degree only.  There was plenty to do in Deerham and its neighbourhood, what with the rich and what with the poor.  Dr. West chiefly attended the rich himself and left Jan to take care of the poor.  It was all one to Jan.

Jan sat on the counter in the surgery, pounding and pounding.  He had just come in from his visit to Deerham Court, summoned thither by the slight accident to his sister Decima.  Leaning his two elbows on the counter, his pale, puffy cheeks on his hands, and intently watching Jan with his light eyes, was a young gentleman rising fifteen, with an apron tied round his waist.  This was Master Cheese; an apprentice, as Jan once had been.  In point of fact, the pounding now was Master Cheese’s proper work, but he was fat and lazy, and as sure as Jan came into the surgery, so sure would young Cheese begin to grunt and groan, and vow that his arms were “knocked off” with the work.  Jan, in his indolent manner—­and in motion and manner Jan appeared intensely indolent, as if there was no hurry in him; he would bring his words, too, out indolently—­would lift the pounding machine aloft, sit himself down on the counter, and complete the work.

“I say,” said young Cheese, watching the progress of the pestle with satisfaction, “Dame Dawson has been here.”

“What did she want?” asked Jan.

“Bad in her inside, she says.  I gave her three good doses of jalap.”

“Jalap!” echoed Jan.  “Well, it won’t do her much harm.  She won’t take ’em; she’ll throw ’em away.”

“Law, Jan!” For, in the private familiarity of the surgery, young Cheese was thus accustomed unceremoniously to address his master—­as Jan was.  And Jan allowed it with composure.

“She’ll throw ’em away,” repeated Jan.  “There’s not a worse lot for physic in all the parish than Dame Dawson.  I know her of old.  She thought she’d get peppermint and cordials ordered for her—­an excuse for running up a score at the public-house.  Where’s the doctor?”