We had eaten a belated supper and drunk of a belated cup, and the doctor, yawning cheerfully, had doffed the vestments of respectability, when there came a ring upon the night-bell. The doctor’s comment on this happening is of no historical importance. It possessed but a topical interest. Myself, I stumbled down the darkling stairs, and, upon opening the street door, was confronted by a respectfully intoxicated giant, who gave the name of Potter. "Potter, of Mulberry Street," he added, as a more explicit afterthought. He demanded Dr. Brink, explaining the urgent requirements of Mrs. Potter. "Have you your card?" I inquired in the cold, commercial tone which this occasion warranted. Mr. Potter removed his cap—a peaked object, of nautical aspect—and from the lining of this he extracted a square of pink pasteboard. This voucher represented at once a receipt and a warranty, being in the first sense an acknowledgment of the sum of ten shillings and sixpence, paid to Dr. Brink in anticipation of certain services, and recording, secondly, a promise from the doctor duly and solemnly to render and perform those services. "And beggin’ yere pardon, young man," said Mr. Potter, in a voice of gloom, "I was to tell you from me aunt that the pains is comin’ on a treat." I had scarcely conveyed this joyful intelligence to Dr. Brink, ere that gentleman announced himself as being ready to embark upon the enterprise demanded of him, having clad himself in a fanciful costume consisting of unlaced boots, slack trousers, a pyjama jacket, an overcoat, and the inevitable top hat. He cheerfully accepted my offer to bear him company upon his journey through the night-bound alleyways, and together we sallied forth. But when we came to the first dim street lamp a sudden monstrous shape appeared within the circle of its radiance, and fawned upon us silently. I wondered, not too hopefully, whether the things which rattled within the doctor’s bag were of sound and sterling substance. For we were not regularly armed, and this monster—but he spoke, and thereby set my doubts at rest. "It is only Potter," murmured the monster, with an apologetic shuffle. "There’s some funny birds as stands abaht the corners yere be night, and Mulberry Street is rather a confusin’ street to come at, and I thought per’aps as you would be alone, Doctor, and so I took the liberty. It is a cold night for the time o’ the year: what? I was to tell you, Doctor, that the pains is comin’ on most beautiful." Mr. Potter committed other information to our confidence. He was a stevedore, he said; and he described the trials of that calling.