But even the two hours of holiday which the doctor "stood himself" on Banking Days would come to an end, although it was not the least remarkable fact connected with the whole absurd proceeding that the two hours in question began at two o’clock and did not end till half-past six. But when they did end, the doctor’s sudden masquerade would also end. The poacher’s coat, the golfing shoes, would vanish, and in their place appeared the solemn calf—gent’s heavy walking—the not less solemn morning coat—a somewhat tarnished vestment, but of undeniable solemnity—and, lastly, the solemnest thing of all, the final token, the apotheosis—the doctor’s black silk hat. It was a profoundly aged hat. A hat of many lustres, the which had swallowed up its own. But it was a _hat_—a black silk hat, and being such it complied with all the conditions: it sufficed: it left no room for criticism. And you did not catch the doctor looking human when he had that hat on. I will not pretend that the doctor loved his hat. "It’s the price which I pay for my soul, this damned thing," he once explained to me. "I hate to have to take it out with me, but Democracy insists. Democracy has a sense of what is due to it. In Norfolk, you could wear what you liked—your mother’s bonnet if you wanted to. But you couldn’t think what you liked or love what you liked. Dammit, you couldn’t even swear at what you liked. Here, you are at liberty to do what you jolly well please; but as to wearing what you please—why, that’s another matter. The doctor is known by his hat. They look for the hat. They expect that. They _pay_ for the hat. And being an honest sort of chap (at bottom), I give them what they pay for. This one cost me ten-and-sixpence." Neither Ma Levinsky nor her rich relations would dare to bandy chaff with the doctor when he was the doctor—when he wore the hat. Even the leisured classes, airing their minds and matter as they propped up the fabric of the "African Chief," forbore to utter even a whisper of native pleasantry. Even the Jew-boys reserved the shafts of their wit for meaner quarry. The black hat awed them all. I remember a certain Banking Day when I persuaded the doctor, cap and all, to enter a public-house. It was called by the name of the "Four Soldiers," and a board outside its windows proclaimed that Devonshire cyder could be had within. But when we got within we found that somebody had won some money at somebody else’s expense, and that this event was being celebrated. And our advent was accordingly received with criticism and comment: wherefore we departed—quick. But hardly had we arrived at the surgery when a messenger appeared—a rather anguished messenger, not very lucid. I answered his ring myself, and can therefore speak authoritatively. "Dockeratome, young man?" "Yes," I said. "Telms wanted, quick. Ole Joe Black. Up the pole. Barmy. See? Murder, see? Telms wanted." "Where?" I inquired.