Any old bottles? Any old rags? Old bones, Rabbit-skins, Waste paper, To buy! That is better. Mr. Tusker is nothing if not lyrical. Also, he is a massy-jawed person in a muffler, having a dent over one eye and a limpy walk. Likewise, he is accompanied by an objectionable smell, arising partly from his trade, profession, or occupation. It is an impressionist sort of smell. The impression it suggested to me was that Mr. Tusker had been subjected to long, long years of solitary confinement in an over-heated chicken-coop. Mr. Tusker, having recited his little poem, was rewarded by a "Not to-day, thank you," from Doctor Brink. "What?" cried Mr. Tusker. "Not any old bottles; any old rags?" "No," insisted Doctor Brink. "Ho," quoth Mr. Tusker. "Right you are, then. One minute, Doctor. The missus. Ahtside. Can I trouble you?" "How?" inquired the doctor. "You know, mate," expounded Mr. Tusker. "Below par. Orfer oats. See? Jes’ run the rule over ’er, Doctor; will ye?" "Certainly," replied the doctor, the light of intelligence at last illuminating his eye. "Bring the lady inside." Mr. Tusker accordingly repaired to the roadway, where his barrow was in waiting. It was a roomy barrow, filled to overflowing with bulging sacks, one of which, being pushed, came to life as Mrs. Tusker, and walked into Doctor Brink’s consulting-room. She was a tired old sack, was Mrs. Tusker, much patched, even as to her face, which was further distinguished by being bruised in several places, a fact which accentuated its native homeliness. "Below par. Orfer oats," repeated Mr. Tusker, with a jerk of the thumb in the direction of the old sack. "Jes’ run yere rule over ’er, Doc." "Had a bad accident, hasn’t she?" began the doctor. "That plaster——" "Never mind the plaster," said the husband. "No," repeated Mrs. Tusker, "never mind that." "Orfer oats, see?" prompted Mr. Tusker. "Ain’t got no appetite," confirmed the lady. "’Er system. See?" added Mr. Tusker. "Yus," assented Mrs. Tusker. "Me system." "Jes’ run yere rule over ’er," said Mr. Tusker. "Well," mused the doctor, "want of appetite doesn’t produce itself, you know. I mean to say—— Her face now. It’s very swollen. The lower part espec——" "Never mind ’er face, ole man," suggested Mr. Tusker. "No," said the patient; "never mind me face." "_I_ done that, ye see," remarked Mr. Tusker. "Yus," replied Mrs. Tusker, "’e done that." Doctor Brink, after staring hard at Mr. Tusker, resumed his inspection of the wife. "I don’t know what sort of appetite you expect to have," he said, "with those four bruises. Her face is simply pul——" "Oh!" reflected Mr. Tusker, "them marks is out o’ date. They put me away for them." Mrs. Tusker nodded. "I—I don’t quite understand," exclaimed the doctor. "I done ’em of a Saturday night, ye see," explained the husband. "And they put me away to the Scrubs. Three weeks I was in." "Three weeks," repeated Mrs. Tusker.