the verge of crunching them up. Perhaps I ought to
warn him._) (_Aloud_) I'm afraid I'm not much good as a thermometer
man.

_Dr. P._ Oh, it's a mere trifle. All you've got to do is just to hold
it under your tongue. There--it's in.

_Mr. S._ (_talking with difficulty_). Ish i' in 'e ri' plashe?

_Dr. P._ Yes. But don't try to talk while it's in your mouth. I've had
patients who've bitten it in two. There--that's enough. (_Extracts it
deftly from patient's mouth and examines it._) Hum, hum, yes. A point
below normal. Nothing violently wrong _there_. (_He now performs the
usual rites and mysteries._) I'll make you out a little prescription
which ought to put you all right. And if you can spare a week, and
spend it at Eastbourne, I don't think it will do you any harm.

_Mr. S._ (_To himself: I like this man. He doesn't waste any time.
It's a curious coincidence that I should have been thinking this
very morning of arranging a visit to the seaside. Now of course I've
absolutely got to go. Can't disobey my new doctor, and wouldn't if I
could. By Jove, I'd all but forgotten about the two guineas fee. Yes,
the cheque's in my breast-pocket. Two guineas for the first visit.
The rule is not to give it too openly, but to slip it on to a desk
or table as if you were half ashamed of it. Where shall I put it so
as to make sure he spots it out of the corner of his eye? Ha! on the
blotting-pad, which I can just reach. Does it with his left hand, and
feels a man once more._)

_Dr. P._ And here's your prescription.

_Mr. S._ Thank you a thousand times. (_To himself: He's edging up to
the blotting-pad, and he'll have the cheque in another second._)

* * * * *

TO A CHINESE COOLIE.

O happy Chink! When I behold thy face,
Illumined with the all-embracing smile
Peculiar to thy celestial race,
So full of mirth and yet so free from guile,
I stand amazed and let my fancy roam,
And ask myself by what mysterious lure
Thou wert induced to leave thy flowery home
For Flanders, where, alas! the flowers are fewer.

Oft have I marked thee on the Calais quay,
Unloading ships of plum-and-apple jam,
Or beef, or, three times weekly, M. and V.,
And sometimes bacon (very rarely ham);
Or, where St. Quentin towers above the plain,
Have seen thee scan the awful scene and sigh,
Pick up a spade, then put it down again
And wipe a furtive tear-drop from thine eye.