Round the Red Lamp: Being Facts and Fancies of Medical Life Story 3 - A Straggler Of '15

Arthur Conan Doyle (0:00)

Section 3 of Round the Red Lamp. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit librivox.org. Recording by Anna Simon. Round the Red Lamp by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Section 3 A Straggler of Fifteen. It was a dull October morning, and heavy rolling fogwraiths lay low over the wet grey roofs of the woolish houses. Down in the long brick-lined streets, all was sodden and greasy and cheerless. From the high dark buildings of the arsenal came the whir of many wheels, the thudding of weights, and the buzz and babel of human toil. Beyond, the dwellings of the working men, smoke-stained and unlovely, radiated away in a lessening perspective of narrowing road and dwindling wall.

There were few folk in the streets, for the toilets had all been absorbed since break of day by the huge smoke-spouting monster, which sucked in the manhood of the town, to belch it forth wary and work-stained every night. Little groups of children straggled to school, or loitered to peep through the single front windows of the big gilt-edged bibles, balanced upon small three-legged tables, which were their usual adornment. Stout women with thick red arms and dirty aprons stood upon the whitened doorsteps, leaning upon their brooms, and shrieking their morning greetings across the road. One stouter, redder, and dirtier than the rest had gathered a small knot of cronies around her, and was talking energetically, with little shrill titters from her audience, to punctuate her remarks. Old enough to know better! she cried, in answer to an exclamation from one of the listeners. If he ain't no sense now, I specks he won't learn much on this side of Jordan. Why, how old is he at all? Blessed if I could ever make out.. Well, it ain't so hard to reckon, said a sharp-featured pale-faced woman with watery blue eyes. He's been at the Battle of Waterloo and has the pension and medal to prove it.. That were a terribly long time ago, remarked a third. It were afore I were born.. It were fifteen years after the beginning of the century, cried a younger woman, who had stood leaning against the wall with a smile of superior knowledge upon her face. My Bill was a-saying so last Sabbath when I spoke to him of old Daddy Brewster here..

And suppose he spook truth, Mrs. Simpson? How long ago did that make it?. It's eighty-one now, said the original speaker, checking off the years upon our coarse red fingers. And that were fifteen. Ten and ten and ten and ten and ten. Why, it's only sixty-six years, so he ain't so old after all.. But he weren't a new-born babe at the battle, silly, cried the young woman, with a chuckle. Suppose he were only twenty. Then he couldn't be less than six and eighty now, at the lowest. Aye, is that. Every day of it, cried several. I have about enough of it, remarked the large woman gloomily. Unless his young niece or grand-niece or whatever she has come to-day, I'm off, and he can find someone else to do his work. Your own home first, said his eye.

Ain't he quiet, then, Mrs. Simpson? asked the youngest of the group. Listen to him now, she answered, with her hand half raised and her head turned slantwise towards the open door. From the upper floor there came a shuffling, sliding sound, with the sharp tapping of a stick. There he go, back and forwards, doing what he called his sentry go. Half the night through he's had that game, the silly old jargons. At six o'clock this very morning, there he was, beaten with a stick at my door. Turn out guard! he cried. Had a lot more jargon, and I could make nothing of. Then what with his coughing and orking and spitting? There ain't no getting a wink of sleep. Hark to him now! Mrs.

Simpson? Mrs. Simpson? cried a cracked and careless voice from above. That's him! she cried, nodding her head with an air of triumph. He do go on something scandalous.. Yes, Mr. Brewster, sir. I want my morning ration, Mrs. Simpson. It's just ready, Mr. Brewster, sir. Bless it if he ain't like a baby crying for its pap, said the young woman. I feel as if I could shake his old bones up sometimes, cried Mrs. Simpson viciously. But who's for a half of fourpenny?. The whole company were about to shuffle off to the public house when a young girl stepped across the road and touched the housekeeper timidly upon the arm. I think that is. 56 Arsenal View, she said. Can you tell me if Mr. Brewster lives here?.