nd visiting-book were spread in front of him.
There was no entry in any of them yet, but it would not look well to
have the covers too glossy and new, so he rubbed them together and
daubed ink over them. Neither would it be well that any patient should
observe that his name was the first in the book, so he filled up the
first page of each with notes of imaginary visits paid to nameless
patients during the last three weeks. Having done all this, he rested
his head upon his hands and relapsed into the terrible occupation of
waiting.

Terrible enough at any time to the young professional man, but most of
all to one who knows that the weeks, and even the days during which he
can hold out are numbered. Economise as he would, the money would
still slip away in the countless little claims which a man never
understands until he lives under a rooftree of his own. Dr. Wilkinson
could not deny, as he sat at his desk and looked at the little heap of
silver and coppers, that his chances of being a successful practitioner
in Sutton were rapidly vanishing away.

And yet it was a bustling, prosperous town, with so much money in it
that it seemed strange that a man with a trained brain and dexterous
fingers should be starved out of it for want of employment. At his
desk, Dr. Horace Wilkinson could see the never-ending double current of
people which ebbed and flowed in front of his window. It was a busy
street, and the air was forever filled with the dull roar of life, the
grinding of the wheels, and the patter of countless feet. Men, women,
and children, thousands and thousands of them passed in the day, and
yet each was hurrying on upon his own business, scarce glancing at the
small brass plate, or wasting a thought upon the man who waited in the
front room. And yet how many of them would obviously, glaringly have
been the better for his professional assistance. Dyspeptic men, anemic
women, blotched faces, bilious complexions--they flowed past him, they
needing him, he needing them, and yet the remorseless bar of
professional etiquette kept them forever apart. What could he do?
Could he stand at his own front door, pluck the casual stranger by the
sleeve, and whisper in his ear, "Sir, you will forgive me for remarking
that you are suffering from a severe attack of acne rosacea, which
makes you a peculiarly unpleasant object. Allow me to suggest that a
small prescription containing arsenic, which will not cost you more
than