The patients filed in, and Jim saw each in turn. They were all suffering from common ailments, and the Long ’Un--after his varied experience among the out-patients at Matt’s, where he had sometimes doctored a hundred persons in one morning--made short work of them. One little girl had a rash on her chest and back. Jim readily diagnosed the complaint as chicken-pox. "Take her home and keep her in bed for a week, mum!" said he, to the girl’s mother; "keep her warm, mind. If she gets a chill, it will drive the spots in, and the child may be very ill then. Keep her warm. Medicine? No, she doesn’t want medicine. Just keep her warm--and away from the other children. All live in one room? Well, they’ll all have it--if they’ve not had it before. Just as well. Sixpence, please!" A young seamstress had no appetite and felt too weak to work. No, she wasn’t married--she helped her mother. Take anything to drink? Only tea. How often? Oh, the pot was on the hob all day. They just helped themselves when they wanted it. "The matter with you, mum," said Jim, "is _tea_! You’re poisoning yourself. So comforting? Yes, but it’s poison. No more tea, mum! Medicine? Yes. I’ll make you up a nice tonic. And go out for a walk every evening--don’t tire yourself, though!" But it wasn’t all sixpenny and shilling counter-trade. Later in the day--when it had been noised about that a new doctor had come to take charge of the practice--various messages--some verbal, some scribbled on notepaper--arrived. Would the doctor come to see Mrs Smith, who was suffering from heart complaint; and Mrs Jones, who had nothing at all the matter with her, but always thought she had? So Jim sallied forth and paid calls on the wives of fishmongers and ironmongers, and greengrocers, and publicans--nearly all his patients were women--ascended rickety staircases, dived into evil-smelling bedrooms, and went hither and thither and about and around on his useful errands of healing and comfort. Over the way, just opposite, was a provision shop and eating-house, bearing the name of "Harris & Son." From the portals of this establishment, about two o’clock in the afternoon, issued a weary little old man of Jewish appearance, who, after glancing up and down Mount Street, crossed over to the surgery. He found Jim doing up some medicine. "How d’ye do, doctor?" said he. "How are you, sir?" "Queer, doctor. Thought I’d come and ask your advice." "Go ahead," said Jim, jabbing a stick of sealing-wax into the gas-jet. "I’ve a funny feeling all over my ’ead--not in the ’ead, but all over it. I’ve been a good deal worried of late, doctor." "Sort of feeling as if your hair was being brushed?" inquired Jim. "That’s it. Not so nice, though." "I know it," said Jim; "I’ve had it myself when I’ve been stewing hard for an exam." (He hadn’t really, but "having had it himself" was a medical formula that he deemed it well to abide by--it comforted patients.)