"We was never bad friends," explained the woman. "We’re friends to-day, on’y not _sich_ friends, if you understand me. This new lodger, you see, she has ’leniated my landlady away from me. That’s what it is. She ’ave leniated her. She’s a _young_ woman, you see! ... Will you give me some morphium, Doctor; just to soothe meself down with?" The maiden got her morphia. The maiden was succeeded by another woman—a mother. She carried a bundle, partly occupied by a baby. She was a lewd and dirty woman, and engaged my friend in the following dialogue. FEMALE: I warra soothin’ surrup for my baby yere. ’E’s fidgety. DOCTOR: How fidgety? FEMALE: Well: look at the little blighter. ’E’s got the blasted jumps. DOCTOR: Of course he’s got the jumps. He’s dying. FEMALE: Warra mean—dyin’? DOCTOR: I mean that he will soon be dead. FEMALE: Whaffor? DOCTOR: Because he’s starving. FEMALE: Warra mean—starving? DOCTOR: I mean that he is squirming mad from hunger. Breast fed, of course? FEMALE: Warra mean, ye bleatin’ image? DOCTOR: Breast fed, of course? FEMALE: Ye bleatin’ image! ’Oo the ’ell you think _you_ are? DOCTOR: Breast fed, of course? FEMALE (_weeping wildly_): Me starve my baby? Ow, ow, ow, ow! DOCTOR: Breast fed, of course? FEMALE: Ow, ow—why cert’nly ’e’s breast fed! ’Ow else d’ye think a pore workin’ woman’s goin’ ter manage? And ’im not five months old. And one of yere own deliveries. Cert’nly e’s breast fed. DOCTOR: That’s the trouble, you see. No baby can be nourished on gin and stout. He’s starving, I tell you. FEMALE: And I tell ye it’s a dirty lie. I’m for ever feedin’ ’im. ’E’s for ever worryin’. Sich a happetite this little beggar’s got. Warra mean, me starve ’im? Warra mean, yere gin and beer? I suckle the little dear meself. DOCTOR: And what do you feed yourself on? FEMALE: That’s my business, ain’t it? DOCTOR: It’s my business, too. If you want that baby to live, you’d best look sharp and feed him. Get sober. I can’t cure the baby. The only person who can cure him is yourself. And to do that you must leave off getting drunk. You must eat some decent food. You’re living on alcohol at present. No baby can be nourished on gin and stout. FEMALE: S’elp me Gawd, Doctor—s’elp me Gawd, young man, if I die this minute—s’elp me Gawd I ain’t ’ad only two ’arf-pints since yisterday. I take them a-purpose for the boy’s own sake, young man. ’E don’t seem to fancy it, some’ow, unless I ’as me drop o’ stout. See what I mean, Doctor? I takes what I do for the baby’s own sake: ’e _will_ ’ave it, bless ’is little ’eart. *V* *THE HYPOCRITES* During a lull in the sixpenny battle Dr. Brink held parley with me, standing on the seat of his official chair and peering through the top of his consulting-room window. "Are you comfortable on that gas-stove?" inquired the learned doctor.