feel that he
was of some use to his wife. He ran swiftly to Bridport Place, his
footfalls clattering through the silent streets and the big dark
policemen turning their yellow funnels of light on him as he passed.
Two tugs at the night-bell brought down a sleepy, half-clad assistant,
who handed him a stoppered glass bottle and a cloth bag which contained
something which clinked when you moved it. Johnson thrust the bottle
into his pocket, seized the green bag, and pressing his hat firmly down
ran as hard as he could set foot to ground until he was in the City
Road and saw the name of Pritchard engraved in white upon a red ground.
He bounded in triumph up the three steps which led to the door, and as
he did so there was a crash behind him. His precious bottle was in
fragments upon the pavement.

For a moment he felt as if it were his wife's body that was lying
there. But the run had freshened his wits and he saw that the mischief
might be repaired. He pulled vigorously at the night-bell.

"Well, what's the matter?" asked a gruff voice at his elbow. He
started back and looked up at the windows, but there was no sign of
life. He was approaching the bell again with the intention of pulling
it, when a perfect roar burst from the wall.

"I can't stand shivering here all night," cried the voice. "Say who
you are and what you want or I shut the tube."

Then for the first time Johnson saw that the end of a speaking-tube
hung out of the wall just above the bell. He shouted up it,--

"I want you to come with me to meet Dr. Miles at a confinement at once."

"How far?" shrieked the irascible voice.

"The New North Road, Hoxton."

"My consultation fee is three guineas, payable at the time."

"All right," shouted Johnson. "You are to bring a bottle of A. C. E.
mixture with you."

"All right! Wait a bit!"

Five minutes later an elderly, hard-faced man, with grizzled hair,
flung open the door. As he emerged a voice from somewhere in the
shadows cried,--

"Mind you take your cravat, John," and he impatiently growled something
over his shoulder in reply.

The consultant was a man who had been hardened by a life of ceaseless
labour, and who had been driven, as so many others have been, by the
needs of his own increasing family to set the commercial before the
philanthropic side of his profession. Yet beneath his rough crust he
was a man with a kindly heart.

"We don't want to break a record," said he, pullin