The Green Flag and Other Stories of War and Sport - The Croxley Master - I Part 1

Arthur Conan Doyle (0:23)

CHAPTER I.

Mr. Robert Montgomery was seated at his desk, his head upon his hands, in a state of the blackest despondency. Before him was the open ledger with the long columns of Dr. Oldacre's prescriptions. At his elbow lay the wooden tray with the labels in various partitions, the cork box, the lumps of twisted ceiling wax, while in front a rank of bottles waited to be filled. But his spirits were too low for work. He sat in silence with his fine shoulders bowed and his head upon his hands.

Outside, through the grimy surgery window over a foreground of blackened brick and slate, a line of enormous chimneys like cyclopean pillars upheld the lowering dun-collared cloud bank. For six days in the week they spouted smoke, but today the furnace fires were banked, for it was Sunday. Sorted in polluting gloom, hung over a district blighted and blasted by the greed of man, there was nothing in the surroundings to cheer a desponding soul, but it was more than his dismal environment which weighed upon the medical assistant. His trouble was deeper and more personal. The winter session was approaching. He should be back again at the university completing the last year which would give him his medical degree, but alas, he had not the money with which to pay his class fees, nor could he imagine how he could procure it. Sixty pounds were wanted to make his career, and it might have been as many thousand for any chance there seemed to be of his obtaining it. He was roused from his black meditation by the entrance of Dr. Oldacre himself, a large, clean-shaven, respectable man with a prim manner and an austere face. He had prospered exceedingly by the support of the local church interest, and the rule of his life was never by word or action to run a risk of offending the sentiment which had made him. His standard of respectability and of dignity was exceedingly high, and he expected the same from his assistants. His appearance and words were always vaguely benevolent. A sudden impulse came over the despondent student. He would test the reality of this philanthropy.

I beg your pardon, Dr. Roldaker, said he, rising from his chair. I have a great favour to ask of you. The doctor's appearance was not encouraging. His mouth suddenly tightened and his eyes fell.

Yes, Mr. Montgomery.

You are aware, sir, that I need only one more session to complete my course. So you have told me. It is very important to me, sir. Naturally.

The fees, Dr. Roldaker, would amount to about sixty pounds. I am afraid that my duties call me elsewhere, Mr. Montgomery.

One moment, sir. I had hoped, sir, that perhaps if I signed a paper promising you interest upon your money you would advance the sum to me. I will pay you back, sir. I really will, or if you like, I will work it off after I am qualified.

The doctor's lips had thinned into a narrow line. His eyes were raised again and sparkled indignantly.

Your request is unreasonable, Mr. Montgomery. I am surprised that you should have made it. Consider, sir, how many thousands of medical students there are in this country. No doubt there are many of them who have a difficulty in finding their fees. Am I to provide for them all? Or why should I make an exception in your favour?

I am grieved and disappointed, Mr. Montgomery, that you should have put me into the painful position of having to refuse you.

He turned upon his heel and walked with offended dignity out of the surgery.

The student smiled bitterly and turned to his work of making up the morning prescriptions. It was poor and unworthy work, work which any weakling might have done as well, and this was a man of exceptional nerve and sinew. But, such as it was, it brought him his board and one pound a week, enough to help him during the summer months and let him save a few pounds towards his winter keep. But those class fees, where were they to come from? He could not save them out of his scanty wage. Dr. Oldacre would not advance them. He saw no way of earning them. His brains were fairly good, but brains of that quality were a drug in the market. He only excelled in his strength, and where was he to find a customer for that? But the ways of fate were strange, and his customer was at hand.

Look here! said a voice at the door. Montgomery looked up, for the voice was a loud and rasping one. A young man stood at the entrance, a stocky, bull-necked young miner, in tweed Sunday clothes and an aggressive necktie. He was a sinister-looking figure, with dark, insolent eyes, and the jaw and throat of a bull-dog. Look here! said he again. Why hast thou not sent to medicine what thy master ordered?