THE COLLIERY SURGEON

Star (Christchurch), Issue 16668, 25 February 1922, Page 6

THE COLLIERY SURGEON

Tho colliery surgeon—the hardest working memoor of a hard-working profession —-is unique in his particular line. He is usually rc Scotsman or an Irishman. His duties are to give medical attendance to the collier, his wife, lamily, and dependents, and his usual fee is 2d in the £1 deducted from the collier* s wages at the sour coin good times this 4< poundage” means a fair income—£2ooo per year in a single-handed practice—but during stopx>ages and strikes the colliery surgeon has to “ carry on ’’ without reward. There is no “off duty” for a colliery surgeon. At his bedside you will find liis telephone and night bell. Should either sound a nocturnal warning ho is instantly alert. “ Man hurt in the North Pit, sir.'’ Tumbling into clothes—for a few minutes may make all the difference —• he makes for the pit-head as fast as petrol will carry him. A deafening gong signals a* “ cage ” ready’ to convey the doctor, with a miner’s lamp and an obliging official guide, down into the depths to the level of the coal. Thence groping, stumbling, stooping, they speed on, on foot, into the colliery workings. For unaccustomed eyes and the “going” is ten- rough, and lucky is the doctor if he can 44 ride a journey ” of empty trucks and save a The injured, collier may be two or three miles away, over a road of which mere surface workers have no conception, from the point to which the cage descended. Presently a party of returning colliers have tidings of the patient. Poor old “ Cockney Bill ” it is. He is fast under a “ fall ” of a couple or three tons of roof. A gang of willing workers are using all their mining skill to get him out. They can hear—or think they can hear —his ever-weakening groans. The doctor reaches the 1 4 fall ” and possibly, by this time, old “ Cockney Bill ” is free—free from pain, “ gone west„” tho iife crushed out of him. The colliery surgeon feels that he has lost a friend. All he can say is “ Poor old chap ” He retraces his wearj' steps and goes home, once more, to bed. % By day he pays his round of visits through the colliery town. A hundred calls he can make in a working day and in the evening his “ surgery ” is full to overflowing. When he has handed the last child messenger the last 44 cooling powder for the baby ” and the last old dame has had a “ dope ” for her rheumatics, he sits him down to his glass of grog and peaceful pipe, but lie does not take his boots off, for that would be unlucky. He would surely have to put them on again, as “ Midwife Jones” would need nis services, in respect of sentryship into this wicked world with* -*ut the proper countersign.—By “ One some tiny collier about to pass her of Them,” in the 44 Daily Mail.”