Night Watches. William Wymark Jacobs
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Night Watches / Complete Series
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Mrs. Scutts, concealed behind the curtain, gazed at the cab in uneasy amazement. The cabman clambered down from the box and, opening the door, stood by with his hands extended ready for any help that might be needed. A stranger was the first to alight, and, with his back towards Mrs. Scutts, seemed to be struggling with something in the cab. He placed a dangling hand about his neck and, staggering under the weight, reeled backwards supporting Mr. Scutts, whose other arm was round the neck of a third man. In a flash Mrs. Scutts was at the door.
Mr. Scutts raised his head sharply and his lips parted; then his head sank again, and he became a dead weight in the grasp of his assistants.
“He’s all right,” said one of them, turning to Mrs. Scutts.
A deep groan from Mr. Scutts confirmed the statement.
“What is it?” inquired his wife, anxiously.
“Just a little bit of a railway accident,” said one of the strangers. “Train ran into some empty trucks. Nobody hurt—seriously,” he added, in response to a terrible and annoyed groan from Mr. Scutts.
With his feet dragging helplessly, Mr. Scutts was conveyed over his own doorstep and placed on the sofa.
“All the others went off home on their own legs,” said one of the strangers, reproachfully. “He said he couldn’t walk, and he wouldn’t go to a hospital.”
“Wanted to die at home,” declared the sufferer. “I ain’t going to be cut about at no ‘ospitals.”
The two strangers stood by watching him; then they looked at each other.
“I don’t want—no—‘ospitals,” gasped Mr. Scutts, “I’m going to have my own doctor.”
“Of course the company will pay the doctor’s bill,” said one of the strangers to Mrs. Scutts, “or they’ll send their own doctor. I expect he’ll be all right to-morrow.”
“I ‘ope so,” said Mr. Scutts, “but I don’t think it. Thank you for bringing of me ‘ome.”
He closed his eyes languidly, and kept them closed until the men had departed.
“Can’t you walk, Bill?” inquired the tearful Mrs. Scutts.
Her husband shook his head. “You go and fetch the doctor,” he said, slowly. “That new one round the corner.”
“He looks such a boy,” objected Mrs. Scutts.
“You go and fetch ‘im,” said Mr. Scutts, raising his voice. “D’ye hear!”
“But—” began his wife.
“If I get up to you, my gal,” said the forgetful Mr. Scutts, “you’ll know it.”
“Why, I thought—” said his wife, in surprise.
Mr. Scutts raised himself on the sofa and shook his fist at her. Then, as a tribute to appearances, he sank back and groaned again. Mrs. Scutts, looking somewhat relieved, took her bonnet from a nail and departed.
The examination was long and tedious, but Mr. Scutts, beyond remarking that he felt chilly, made no complaint. He endeavoured, but in vain, to perform the tests suggested, and even did his best to stand, supported by his medical attendant. Self-preservation is the law of Nature, and when Mr. Scutts’s legs and back gave way he saw to it that the doctor was underneath.
“We’ll have to get you up to bed,” said the latter, rising slowly and dusting himself.
Mr. Scutts, who was lying full length on the floor, acquiesced, and sent his wife for some neighbours. One of them was a professional furniture-remover, and, half-way up the narrow stairs, the unfortunate had to remind him that he was dealing with a British working man, and not a piano. Four pairs of hands deposited Mr. Scutts with mathematical precision in the centre of the bed and then proceeded to tuck him in, while Mrs. Scutts drew the sheet in a straight line under his chin.
“Don’t look much the matter with ‘im,” said one of the assistants.
“You can’t tell with a face like that,” said the furniture-remover. “It’s wot you might call a ‘appy face. Why, he was ‘arf smiling as we, carried ‘im up the stairs.”
“You’re a liar,” said Mr. Scutts, opening his eyes.
“All right, mate,” said the furniture-remover; “all right. There’s no call to get annoyed about it. Good old English pluck, I call it. Where d’you feel the pain?”
“All over,” said Mr. Scutts, briefly.
His neighbours regarded him with sympathetic eyes, and then, led by the furniture-remover, filed out of the room on tip-toe. The doctor, with a few parting instructions, also took his departure.
“If you’re not better by the morning,” he said, pausing at the door, “you must send for your club doctor.”
Mr. Scutts, in a feeble voice, thanked him, and lay with a twisted smile on his face listening to his wife’s vivid narrative to the little crowd which had collected at the front door. She came back, followed by the next-door neighbour, Mr. James Flynn, whose offers of assistance ranged from carrying Mr. Scutts out pick-a-back when he wanted to take the air, to filling his pipe for him and fetching his beer.
“But I dare say you’ll be up and about in a couple o’ days,” he concluded. “You wouldn’t look so well if you’d got anything serious the matter; rosy, fat cheeks and–”
“That’ll do,” said the indignant invalid. “It’s my back that’s hurt, not my face.”
“I know,” said Mr. Flynn, nodding sagely; “but if it was hurt bad your face would be as white as that sheet-whiter.”
“The doctor said as he was to be kep’ quiet,” remarked Mrs. Scutts, sharply.
“Right-o,” said Mr. Flynn. “Ta-ta, old pal. Keep your pecker up, and if you want your back rubbed with turps, or anything of that sort, just knock on the wall.”
He went, before Mr. Scutts could think of a reply suitable for an invalid and, at the same time, bristling with virility. A sinful and foolish desire to leap out of bed and help Mr. Flynn downstairs made him more rubicund than ever.
He sent for the club doctor next morning, and, pending his arrival, partook of a basin of arrowroot and drank a little beef-tea. A bottle of castor-oil and an empty pill-box on the table by the bedside added a little local colour to the scene.
“Any pain?” inquired the doctor, after an examination in which bony and very cold fingers had played a prominent part.
“Not much pain,” said Mr. Scutts. “Don’t seem to have no strength in my back.”
“Ah!” said the doctor.
“I tried to get up this morning to go to my work,” said Mr. Scutts, “but I can’t stand! couldn’t get out of bed.”
“Fearfully upset, he was, pore dear,” testified Mrs. Scutts. “He can’t bear losing a day. I s’pose—I s’pose the railway company will ‘ave to do something if it’s serious, won’t they, sir?”
“Nothing to do with me,” said the doctor. “I’ll put him on the club for a few days; I expect he will be all right soon. He’s got a healthy colour—a very healthy colour.”
Mr. Scutts waited until he had left the house and then made a few remarks on the colour question that for impurity of English and strength of diction have probably never been surpassed.
A second visitor that day came after dinner—a tall man in a frock-coat, bearing in his hand a silk hat, which, after a careful survey of the room, he hung on a knob of the bedpost.
“Mr. Scutts?” he inquired, bowing.
“That’s me,” said Mr. Scutts, in a feeble voice.
“I’ve called from the railway company,” said the stranger. “We have seen now all those who left their names and addresses on Monday afternoon, and I am glad to say that nobody was really hurt. Nobody.”
Mr. Scutts, in a faint voice, said he was glad to hear it.
“Been a wonder if they had,”