Pember Street, E., is never very cheerful in appearance, not even in mid-spring, when the dingy lilacs in the forecourts of those grimy houses bourgeon and blossom. The shrubs assimilate soon the general air of depression common to the neighbourhood. The smoke catches and turns them; they wilt or wither; and the bunches of flowers are sicklied over with the smuts and blacks of the roaring chimneys. The one open space within reach is the river, and thither I frequently repaired during the three years I practised in the East End. At least it was something to have that wide flood before one, the channel of great winds and the haunt of strange craft. The tide grew turbid under the Tower Bridge and rolled desolately about the barren wilderness of the Isle of Dogs; but it was for all that a breach in the continuity of ugly streets and houses, a wide road itself, on which tramped unknown and curious lives, passing to and fro between London and foreign parts.

Unless a man be in deadly earnest or very young, I cannot conceive a career more distressing to the imagination and crushing to the ambition than the practice of medicine in the East End. The bulk of my cases were club cases which enabled me to be sure of a living, and the rest were for the most part sordid and unpleasant subjects, springing out of the vile life of the district. Alien sailors abounded and quarrelled fiercely. Often and often have I been awakened in the dead hours to find drunken and foreign-speaking men at my door, with one or more among them suffering from a dangerous knife-wound. And the point of it that came nearly home to me was that this career would not only lead to nothing, but was unprofitable in itself. I had taken the position in the hope that I might make something of it, but I found that it was all I could do to maintain my place. I made no charge for advice in my consultations, but took a little money on the medicine which I made up. Is any position to be conceived more degrading to a professional man? The one bright time in my week was of a Saturday, when I donned my best coat and gloves, took down my silkiest hat, and, discarding the fumes and flavours of the East, set out for Piccadilly. I still remained a member of a decent club, and here I lunched in my glory, talked with some human creatures, exchanged views on the affairs of the world, smoked and lolled in comfortable chairs in short, took my enjoyment like a man-about-town, and then went back to earn my next week’s holiday.

Punctually to a minute I must be in the surgery in Pember Street at six o’clock, and the horrid round must begin to circle again. I will confess that there was a time when I could have loved that career as a saunterer in West End streets. It appealed to me at five-and-twenty almost as a romantic profession. Other young men whom I had known, at school and college, had entered it, and some were, or appeared to be, signal stars in that galaxy of wealth and beauty. My means, however, denied me access, and at thirty I would have been content, after my experience of hardships and poverty, to settle in some comfortable suburb, not too distant from the sphere of radiance. As it was, I was in chains in the slums of Wapping, and re-visited the glimpses of Piccadilly once a week.

When I rose on an evening in November to go down to the river almost for the last time, it was not a Saturday, but a Thursday, and the West End seemed still a long way off. I had finished my round of cases, and had sat waiting in my dingy surgery for patients. But none had come, and in the enforced meditation that ensued, as I reviewed my past and my prospects, my soul sickened in me. I wanted to breathe more freely I wanted more air and something more cheerful than the low surgery lamp and the dismal lights that wagged in the street. I put on my hat and passed down to the river.

It was quite dark, and the easterly drift had obscured and dirtied the sky, so that when I came out by a landing which I knew now familiarly, I could see only the lights across the water, and some tall spars and funnels in the foreground. But the river at full tide champed audibly against the wharves, and the various sounds of that restless port assailed my ears the roar of the unseen traffic behind me, the fluting and screaming of whistles, the mingled shouts, oaths, and orders in the distance, and the drone of that profound water under all.

I had stood for some minutes, drinking in the better air, when there were voices near, suddenly risen out of the flood, and I perceived two men had landed. They paused by me for one to relight his pipe, and in the flash of the match I gathered from the dresses that they were stevedores, newly come, no doubt, from unloading some vessel. But my attention was taken off them unexpectedly by a great flare that went up into the sky apparently in mid-channel. It made a big bright flame, quite unusual in that resort of silent lights, and one of the stevedores commented on it.

“That’ll be her,” he said; “she was coming up round the Dogs in a la-di-da fashion. Maybe she’ll fly rockets in another minute.”

“Them steam-yachts are the jockeys to blue the money,” responded his companion. “Nothink’s good enough for them.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Only a Geordie brig straight from winning the America Cup, sir,” said the first man with a facetious smile. “What did they make her out, Bill?”

Bill hesitated. “I think it was the Sea Queen,” he said doubtfully, and added, in harmony with his companion’s mood:

“They don’t want to make themselves known, not by a long chalk.”

With which, the flare having died down, they tramped away into the night with a civil leave-taking.

I followed them presently, moving along the road in the direction of the docks. When I reached the entrance I paused, and the gatekeeper addressed me.

“Going in, doctor? Got a call?”

I recognised him in the dimness of his lamp as a man whom I had attended for an accident, and I gave him good evening.

“No,” said I, “but I want some air. I think I will, if you don’t mind.”

“Welcome, sir,” said he cheerily, and I found myself on the other side of the gateway.

I walked along the vacant stretch of ground, lit only by dull gas-lamps, and, passing the low office buildings and storing sheds, came out by the water-basins. Here was a scene of some bustle and disorder, but it was farther on that the spectators were engaged in a knot, for the caisson was drifting round, and a handsome vessel was floating in, her funnel backed against the grey darkness and her spars in a ghostly silhouette. The name I heard on several sides roused in me a faint curiosity. It was the stranger I had observed, the Sea Queen, the subject of the stevedores’ pleasantries.

“A pretty boat,” said I to my neighbour. “What is she?”

He shook his head. “Sea Queen out of Hamburg,” he said, “and a pleasure yacht from the look of her. But what she does here beats me.”

The caisson closed, and the steam-yacht warped up slowly to the pier. There was little or no noise on her, only a voice raised occasionally in an authoritative command, and the rattling of chains that paid out through the donkey-engine. Idly I moved to the stone quay when the gangway was let down, but only one man descended. The passengers, if there had been any, had long since reached town from Tilbury, saving themselves that uninteresting trudge up the winding river-lane.

I moved on to where a steamer was being loaded under the electric lights, and watched the same for some time with interest; then, taking out my watch, I examined it, and came to the conclusion that if I was to see any patients that evening at all I must at once get back to my unpalatable rooms. I began to go along the pier, and passed into the shadow of the Sea Queen, now sunk in quiet, and drab and dark. As I went, a port-hole in the stern almost on the level of my eyes gleamed like a moon, and of a sudden there was an outbreak of angry voices, one threatening volubly and the other deeper and slower, but equally hostile. It was not that the altercation was anything astonishing in human life, but I think it was the instantaneous flash of that light and those voices in a dead ship that pulled me up. I stared into the port-hole, and as I did so the face of a man passed across it ’twixt the light and me; it passed and vanished; and I walked on. As I turned to go down to the gates I was aware of the approaching fog. I had seen it scores of times in that abominable low-lying part of the town, and I knew the symptoms. There was a faint smell in the air, an odour that bit the nostrils, carrying the reek of that changeless wilderness of factories and houses. The opaque grey sky lost its greyness and was struck to a lurid yellow. Banks of high fog rolled up the east and moved menacingly, almost imperceptibly, upon the town. For a moment there were dim shadows of the wharves and the riverside houses, with a church tower dimmer still behind them, and then the billows of the fog descended and swallowed up all.

I moved now in a blackness, but bore to the right, in which direction I knew were the dock sheds and safety. I seemed to have been feeling my way for a long time quite ten minutes and yet I did not come upon anything. I began to be seized with the fear of a blind man who is helpless in vacancy. Had I left the basin in my rear, or had I somehow wandered back towards it, and would another step take me over into the water? I shrank from the thought of that cold plunge, and, putting out my stick on all sides, tapped and tapped, and went on foot by foot. I was still upon the stone, when I should have reached the sheds, or at least have got upon the earth again, with the roadway running to the gates. Angry at my own folly for lingering so long about the ships, I continued cautiously forward, trying each step of the way. Presently I heard a sound of footsteps before me, and then a voice raised in a stave of song. There followed a loud oath and the splash of a heavy body in water.

Plainly the basin was, then, in front of me, and some one had fallen in. The poor wretch was doomed to drown in that horrid and impenetrable darkness. I shuddered at the thought of that fate, and moved faster under the whip of impulse. The next moment I brought sharply up against a stone post by which ships were warped in and fastened. Below was the water, and now I could hear the sound of splashing, and a voice raised in a cry of terror. Round the post was coiled a heavy rope which I loosened as rapidly as was possible and began to lower over the edge of the basin.

“This way,” I called; “make this way. Here is the pier,” but the splashing continued, and a smother of sound came to me, as if the swimmer were under water, and his voice stifled. Almost without thinking, I gripped the thick, tarry rope and let myself over the basin, until I had reached the surface of the water.

“This way,” I called; “if you can get here, I can save you.”

The noise seemed to come from some little distance out, and now I was in the water myself, with the cable in my hand, striking out feverishly and awkwardly in the direction of the struggling man. I came upon him in a dozen strokes, and the first news I had of him was a kick in the shoulder that almost tore me from my rope. The next moment I had him by the collar and without more ado was retracing my way, towing a violent mass of humanity behind me. It was only by dint of hard work and by propping him in my arms that I at last landed him on the pier, and then I succeeded in following myself, very sore and stiff and cold.

The first words that sprang from the prostrate figure on the quay were some incoherent oaths, which ultimately took form. “Curse Legrand, curse him!”

“Come,” said I; “if you are well enough to swear you are well enough to travel, and we are both of us in a case for treatment.”

“I can’t see you,” said a voice, in a grumbling way, “but you saved me. Pull along, and I’ll do my best to follow. Where the dickens are we?”

I groped and helped him to his feet. “Give me your arm,” said I; “we can’t afford to go in again, either of us.”

“Were you in too?” he asked stupidly.

“Well, what do you think?” I replied with a little laugh, and began to walk, this time, determinately at right angles from the basin.

He said nothing more, but hung on my arm pretty limp, as we struggled through the darkness, and presently we both fell over a bale of goods.

“So far so good,” I said, picking him up; “we must be in the neighbourhood of the sheds. Now to find them, and creep along in their protection.”

We struck the buildings immediately after, and I had no difficulty in working my way to the end. That took us to dry ground, or, at least, to the sloppy ground at the bottom of the docks. By good fortune we now hit upon the roadway, and it was to me a delight to hear the ring of the hard macadam under our squelching boots. I was now almost cheerful, for I was sure that I could not wander from the road, and, sure enough, we were advertised of our position and heralded all the way by the meagre lamps at intervals. Soon after we reached the gates, which were opened by my friend.

He peered into our faces. “It was a call, sure enough,” said I, laughing. “And here’s my patient.”

When we got into the road the fog had slightly lifted, and I had less difficulty in picking my way home than I had anticipated. Once in the surgery, I turned up the lamp and poked the fire into a blaze, after which I looked at my companion. It was with a sense of familiarity that I recognised his face as that which I had seen flitting across the port-hole of the Sea Queen. He sat back in the chair in which I had placed him and stared weakly about the room. The steam went up from both of us.

“Look here,” said I, “if we stay so, we are dead or rheumatic men”; and I went into my bedroom, changed myself, and brought him some garments of my own. These he put on, talking now in the garrulous voice I had heard on the yacht, but somewhat disconnectedly.

“It’s awfully good of you ... a Good Samaritan,” and here a vacant laugh. “I wonder if these things.... How did I go over? I thought I was going straight. It must have been that infernal fog.... Where the dickens are we?”

“You are in my house,” said I, “but you might be at the bottom of the basin.”

“Good heavens!” he said, with a laugh. “I feel mighty shivery. Don’t you think a drop of something

I looked at him closely. “I think it wouldn’t be a bad idea in the circumstances,” I said.

“Oh, I know I had too much to carry!” he said recklessly. “It made me quarrel with that wretched Legrand, too a fat-headed fool!”

I rang for water, and mixed two hot jorums of whisky, one of which he sipped contentedly.

“You see, we had a rousing time coming over,” he observed, as if in apology. I looked my question, and he answered it. “Hamburg, in the Sea Queen. The old man skipped at Tilbury, and Barraclough’s a real blazer.”

“Which accounts for the blaze I saw,” I remarked drily.

“Oh, you saw that. Yes, it was that that made Legrand mad. He’s particular. But what’s the odds? The boss has to pay.”

His eyes roamed about the shabby room shabby from the wretched pictures on the walls to the threadbare carpet underfoot, and, though he was not a gentleman, I felt some feeling of irritation. Perhaps if he had been a gentleman I should not have been put out at this scrutiny of my poverty.

“You saved me, and that’s certain,” he began again. “Say, are you a doctor?”

I admitted it.

“Well, can you recommend another glass of toddy?” he asked, smiling, and his smile was pleasant.

“In the circumstances again perhaps,” I said.

“Oh, I know I played the fool,” he conceded. “But it isn’t often I do. I must have gone off in the fog. How did you get at me?”

I told him.

“That was plucky,” he said admiringly. “I don’t know two folks I’d risk the same for.”

“There wasn’t much risk,” I answered. “It was only a question of taking a cold bath out of season.”

“Well!” he said, and whistled. “There’s white people everywhere, I guess. Business good?”

The question was abrupt, and I could not avoid it. “You have your answer,” I replied, with a gesture at the room, and taking out my cigar-case I offered him one.

He accepted it, bit off the end, and spat it on the floor, as if preoccupied. His brow wrinkled, as if the mental exercise were unusual and difficult.

“The Sea Queen is a rum bird,” he said presently, “but there’s plenty of money behind. And she wants a doctor.”

“Well,” said I, smiling at him.

“We left a Scotch chap sick at Hamburg,” he continued. “The boss is a secret beggar, with pots of money, they say. We chartered out of the Clyde, and picked him up at Hamburg him and others.”

“A pleasure yacht?” I inquired.

“You may call it that. If it ain’t that I don’t know what it is, and I ought to know, seeing I am purser. We’ve all signed on for twelve months, anyway. Now, doctor, we want a doctor.”

He laughed, as if this had been a joke, and I stared at him. “You mean,” said I slowly, “that I might apply.”

“If it’s worth your while,” said he. “You know best.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” I replied. “It depends on a good many things.”

All the same I knew that I did know best. The whole of my discontent, latent and seething for years, surged up in me. Here was the wretched practice by which I earned a miserable pittance, bad food, and low company. On the pleasure yacht I should at least walk among equals, and feel myself a civilised being. I could dispose of my goodwill for a small sum, and after twelve months well, something might turn up. At any rate, I should have a year’s respite, a year’s holiday.

I looked across at the purser of the Sea Queen, with his good-looking, easy-natured face, his sleek black hair, and his rather flabby white face, and still I hesitated.

“I can make it a dead bird,” he said, wagging his head, “and you’ll find it pretty comfortable.”

“Where are you going? The Mediterranean?” I asked.

“I haven’t the least idea,” he said with a frank yawn. “But if your tickets are all right you can bet on the place.”

“I’m agreeable,” I said, in a matter-of-fact voice.

“Good man!” said he, with some of his former sparkle of interest. “And now we’ll have another to toast it, and then I must be off.”

“Don’t you think you’d better stay here the night?” I asked. “I can put you up. And the fog’s thicker.”

“Thanks, old man,” he replied with easy familiarity, “I would like a roost, only I’ve got an engagement. I wired to some one, you know.” And he winked at me wickedly.

“Very well,” said I. “If you have an appointment, I would suggest that we leave over the toast.”

“You’re right,” he said ingenuously. “But it was a nasty bath. All serene. I’ll fix that up. By the way,” he paused on his road to the door, “I haven’t your name.”

“Nor I yours,” I answered. “Mine’s Richard Phillimore.”

“Mine’s Lane,” he said. “Qualified?”

“M.B. London,” I replied.

“Good for you. That’ll make it easier. I suppose I can go in your togs.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, “though they don’t fit you very well.”

“Oh, I’m a bit smaller than you, I know, but all cats are grey in the dark, and it’s infernally dark to-night! Well, so long, and I’m much obliged to you, I’m sure.”

He swung out of the door with his free gait, and I stopped him.

“One word more. Who’s your owner?”

“The boss? Oh, Morland Morland, a regular millionaire.”

With that he was gone.