Yesterday he was the heir to a fortune and a flourishing practice. (The asylum he left out of his calculations, as he was aware that a private institution of this kind can now--according to the law of the land--only descend from father to son, and on the death of the latter must cease to exist.) To-day he was a young man of four-and-twenty, with a medical qualification, various surgical implements, a small collection of well-thumbed works relating to his craft, a sufficient wardrobe, and some thirty shillings in cash. Thus provided, the world was before him, and he was wondering what sort of a job he and the world would make of it, when, as he blundered absent-mindedly round the corner of the street in which St Matthew’s Hospital was situated, he ran plump into the stalwart form of Sir Savile Smart, the eminent specialist of whom mention has already been made. "What--_Mortimer_!" "How do you do, Sir Savile?" The great man’s moustache hid a smile as he observed: "And how many more policemen’s helmets have you added to your collection?" Jim blushed. "You’ll get a fine wigging from your grandfather if he hears of your latest adventure," added Sir Savile. "He _has_ heard of it, sir," said Jim, and forthwith told the specialist of what had befallen him. Sir Savile bit his moustache. "No hope of a reprieve, I suppose?" "No hope whatever, I fear," said Jim. Sir Savile hailed a cab. "I’m due at Harley Street in fifteen minutes, but I can talk to you on the way." He laid his hand kindly on the Long ’Un’s arm as the cab approached them, and to Jim’s credit be it said that he felt, at that moment, that he had more good friends than he deserved to have. "Practically," said Sir Savile, as the cab sped westwards, "you want a billet?" Jim ruefully acknowledged that he couldn’t live on air. "You want a billet? Good. I’ve got one for you." He pulled a letter out of his pocket. "My friend Taplow--’the ladies’ doctor’ they call him--has a surgery over the water. As you may know, it’s not an uncommon thing for a man with a fat West-end practice to run a shilling and six-penny shop in the slums. Anything for money, Mortimer! Well, as I said, he’s got a surgery over the water--in the Blackfriars district--and he wants a man to look after it. He’ll pay about a hundred and twenty a year. Any good to you?" "Better than living on air," said Jim. "Experience, too," continued Sir Savile; "heaps. It’s a rough, poverty-stricken quarter--very rough. You’ll make acquaintance with the masses. The man lately in charge of the place was not quite up to the work--too old. And he was unfortunate in his end----" "_End!_" said Jim. "Is he dead, then?" "Dead as a door-nail." "What did he die of?" queried Jim. "Boots and knives. He was killed by Hooligans." The Long ’Un opened his eyes wide. "Perhaps," said Sir Savile, "you will now think that even living on air is better than risking one’s chances of living on anything?"