Round the Red Lamp: Being Facts and Fancies of Medical Life Story 5 - A False Start

Arthur Conan Doyle (0:00)

Round the Red Lamp.

Section 5 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. Round the Red Lamp by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Section 5, A False Start.

Is Dr. Horace Wilkinson at home? I am he. Pray, step in. The visitor looked somewhat astonished at having the door open to him by the master of the house.

I wanted to have a few words.

The doctor, a pale, nervous young man, dressed in an ultra-professional long black frock coat with a high white collar cutting off his dapper side whiskers in the centre, rubbed his hands together and smiled. In the thick, burly man in front of him, he scented a patient, and it would be his first. His scanty resources had begun to run somewhat low, and although he had his first quarter's rent safely locked away in the right-hand drawer of his desk, it was becoming a question with him how he should meet the current expenses of his very simple housekeeping. He bowed, therefore, waved his visitor in, closed the hall door in a careless fashion, as though his own presence thereat had been a purely accidental circumstance, and finally led the burly stranger into his scantily furnished front room where he motioned him to a seat. Dr. Wilkinson planted himself behind his desk, and placing his fingertips together, he gazed with some apprehension at his companion. What was the matter with the man? He seemed very red in the face. Some of his old professors would have diagnosed his case by now, and would have electrified the patient by describing his own symptoms before he had said a word about them. Dr. Horace Wilkinson wracked his brains for some clue, but nature had fashioned him as a plotter, a very reliable plotter, and nothing more. He could think of nothing save that the visitor's watch chain had a very brassy appearance, with a corollary to the effect that he would be lucky if he got half a crown out of him. Still even half a crown was something in those early days of struggle.

Whilst the doctor had been running his eyes over the stranger, the latter had been plunging his hands into pocket after pocket of his heavy coat. The heat of the weather, his dress, and this exercise of pocket rummaging had all combined to still further redden his face, which had changed from brick to beet, with a gloss of moisture on his brow. This extreme ruddiness brought a clue at last to the observant doctor. Surely it was not to be attained without alcohol. In alcohol lay the secret of this man's trouble. Some little delicacy was needed, however, in showing him that he had read his case aright, that at a glance he had penetrated to the inmost sources of his ailments.

It's very hot, observed the stranger, mopping his forehead. Yes, it is weather which tempts one to drink rather more beer than is good for one, answered Dr. Horace Wilkinson, looking very knowingly at his companion from over his finger tips.

Dear, dear, you shouldn't do that. I? I never touch beer. Neither do I. I've been an abstainer for 20 years.

This was depressing. Dr. Wilkinson blushed until he was nearly as red as the other. May I ask what I can do for you? He asked, picking up his stethoscope and tapping it gently against his thumbnail.

Yes, I was just going to tell you. I heard of your coming, but I couldn't get round before. He broke into a nervous little cough. Yes, said the doctor encouragingly. I should have been here three weeks ago, but you know how these things get put off. He coughed again behind his large red hand.

I do not think that you need to say anything more, said the doctor, taking over the case with an easy air of command. Your cough is quite sufficient. It is entirely bronchial by the sound. No doubt the mischief is circumscribed at present, but there is always the danger that it may spread, so you have done wisely to come to me. A little judicious treatment will soon set you right. Your waistcoat, please, but not your shirt. Puff out your chest and say 99 in a deep voice. The red-faced man began to laugh. It's all right, doctor, said he. That cough comes from chewing tobacco, and I know it's a very bad habit. Nine and nine pence is what I have to say to you, for I'm the officer of the gas company, and they have a claim against you for that on the meter. Dr. Horace Wilkinson collapsed into his chair. Then you're not a patient, he gasped. Never needed a doctor in my life, sir.