III.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXVIII, Issue 31, 2 August 1900, Page 24

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But a summons to a distant part of England on important family business kept me out of town for three weeks, and when I went next to the house in Paradise street poor old Parkes did not open the door to me. A frowzy landlady confronted me. ■ The doctor, sir I 'E's awfully bad. 'Eve a got up, as I pereuaded him not to, with such a couch. But c says, " I must see to my patients," and so 'es a fittin' in 'is room as ought to be in bed. E was took on Saturday, and to-day is Wednesday,' she ended. I pushed past her into the consulting room, and there sat Tom in the armchair beside an apology for a fire, coughing and gasping for breath. A wonderful relief came into his face as he saw me. 1 I'm —l'm awfully glad to see you,' he whispered ; ' got —a touch of the flue —l think.' He spoke gaspingly, as though speech were painful. ' I'll tackle this patient for you, old man,' I said, glancing at an old woman who sat before him. Look here, let me help you on to the couch.' He could hardly stand, and I almost lifted him on to the horsehair sofa of unprepossessing appearance, and after fretting rid of the old patient, turned all my attention to making Tom comfortable. ' It's nothing much, he gasped . ' I've just got —a touch —of — mliv —sueh —a —lot —about,' he muttered, wearily ; such bad nights —so many sick —and dying —and dying ' He rambled on whilst the landlady and I brought his bed into the consulting room, and I lifted him upon it and undressed him. It was pitiful to see his thinness. 1 Pore gentleman '' the landlady exclaimed, ' 'c's been and starved 'isself, that's what it is , and many's the tims I've brought 'im a bite of somethin • we've bin 'avin , and 'c says, always ho cheery, ''Now, that's kind of you, Mrs. Jones," and I never mißsed payin' the rent, neither, though Lord knows 'owe got it. 'E's 'a put away 'most everything she whispered, whilst I stood looking down at the flushed lace and bright, unseeing eyes, and listened to Im rambling, disconnected talk. We did our best for him, poor fellow. I fetched one of the leading phyeicians of the day, but he only shook his head significantly. ' Abbolutely helplebs, he said,' absolutely hopeless, poor fellow. • And im always a slavin',' sobbed Mrs. Jones. ''E was alwaya out day and night in the streets, aud in 'is thin coat, and starvin' 'isself, 'taint no wonder 'c got the pneumony, or whatever they calls it ; c never thought of 'isself, never once.' I sat by him that same night. Towards morning his restlessness ceased, and he turned clear eyes upon me and whispered • 'I've made a poor thing of it, and I —meant —to —do —big — things.' I don't know what I said, but he went on . r-,»*r -,»* 'I say —what's that—about— about —an —unprofitable —servant,' I —meant to do —a lot. I've—done —nothing—an unprofitable — servant." I'm not a very religious sort of chap, but somehow when he said those words some others came into my head, and I whispered . ' Not unprofitable, old fellow . there's something else in the game Book, isn't there, about a •' good and faithful servant.'" That's nearer the mark for you.' A queer smile crept over his face, a curious light stole into his eyes. ' Unprofitable —or faithful Which/ he murmured. They were the last words I heard from poor old Parkes' lips.

IV. 1 was obliged to go out of town again for the three days »fter his death, but made all arrangements that the funeral should be a decent one, and I determined to be present at it myself, for I couldn't bear to think of the poor old chap going lonely to his last long home. There was a gleam of wintry sun upon London as I walked quickly through the borough on the morning of Tom's funeral, a bunch of white flowers in my hand. I aidn't like to think that no one would put a flower on his coffin, and I knew he had no relations. As I entered the thoroughfare out of which Paradise Btreet opens I was surprised to find myself upon the outskirts of a dense crpwd of people. The traffic was at a standstill ; the few policemen

visible were absolutely powerless to do anything with the mass of human beings that stretched as far down the street as I could see and blocked every corner ; in fact, the police had given up attempting to do anything but keep order, which was not difficult, for a more silent, well-behaved crowd I never saw. I looked in vain for its cause. I touched a policeman's arm. ' What is it all about .' ' I asked. ' Can I get through 1 ' ' Don't look much like it, sir ; 'tie a funeral.' ' A funeral ! But I never saw such a crowd even at the funerals of very distinguished people. Who iv the world is grand enough in those parts to have a following like thia .' ' ' Tis a ' he began, then turned hdbtily to cry: 'Pass on, there ; pass on, please ' — a Bheer impossibility, by the way, for no one could move an inch. ' What does it all mean .' ' I paid to a man beside me, a rough costermonger, who, like myself, held a bunch of flowers in his hand. ' 'Tis the doctor's funeral,' he replied. ' What doctor ? ' I asked, mystified. 4 Why, I'm going to a doctor's funeral, too, but my poor friend wasn't well known ; he won't have crowds to follow him. He lived in Paradise Btreet, poor chap.' 4 So did our doctor,' the man answered, and he drew his grimy hand across his eyes ; ' maybe 'tis the same. 'Tis Dr. Parkes as we've come to see laid in 'is grave. E was good to us, and 'tis the last thing we will ever do for 'im.' 'Do you mean to tell me that this enormous orowd ' I stammered. 4 'Tie the followin 1 for Dr. Parkes, yea, sir ; 'tis a Bight you don't see but once in a lifetime, neither. Most of us chaps 'as 'ad to give up a day's work to come, but bless you, we don't grudge it to he ; no, that we don't,' and the man gave a little gulp. This was Tom Parkes' following. And I had thought that 1 should be his only follower. I was but one among hundreds. When they knew I was the dead man's friend, they at once somehow made a way through the crowd, which grew denser and denser as I walked down Patadise street— a strange, reverent, silent crowd. Just as I reached the door they were carrying the coffin out ; it was one mass of flowers, and I, poor fool, had thought, pityingly, that my insignificant bunch would be the only ones upon it. They told me afterwards that men and women had spent th«ir hard- won earnings to buy these wreaths for the doctor they loved — men and women who could with difficulty spare their money, who were having a hand-to-hand struggle themselves for existence. I have never seen such a sight as that funeral, never in my life. All the way to the far-off cemetery those thousands of men and women, aye, and even children, followed their doctor, and it seemed as though the great silent crowd would never cease filing past his grave afterwards when all was over. *'E said as 'ow e 'ad failed, sir,' his landlady sobbed that evening when I went around to see after poor old Tom's few little things; ''esaid'is life was alia mistake, but lor' it don't look much like a mistake, sir. Why, the good c 'ye a done and the influence 'c 'ye 'ad in these courts no one wouldn't believe as hadn't seen 'is funeral. 'Twas a wonderful buryin', sir.' Truly a wonderful burying. I wrote to a lot of his fellow-students to try and raise enough money to put a stone over the poor old fellow. But we were forestalled in this by the people amongst whom he had worked — for whom he had died. They collected the money — those folk in the back streets of the Boro — in farthings and half-pence and pence, and upon the cross they engraved his name and these wordß : ' The Beloved Physician.' — Ei < hmnit