"’E ain’t been up to nothing. This is young Bill Dawkins. ’_E_ ain’t done no ’arm." "But what is the cause of all this?" "All what?" demanded the escort, with a touch of wonder. "All this damage," explained the doctor patiently. "Has he been fighting?" "Lord bless ye, no, sir!" whispered the escort, hoarse with horror. "’_E_ ain’t been fightin’. Bill Dawkins is a gentleman!" "Then," cried the doctor, at last permitting himself to show heat, "who in the devil’s name has been mutilating him?" The escort looked blank. "Mutinate—mutinate," he repeated thoughtfully. "I ain’t ’eard about that, sir." The doctor sighed, and soaked some dressing. "Could you think carefully," he then suggested, "and tell me how he came to meet this trouble?" "What trouble?" murmured the escort. He put his head on one side and opened his mouth, and his resemblance to an inquisitive owl was pathetic. "What trouble do you mean, sir?" "_This_," cried the frenzied gentleman, pointing wildly to Mr. Dawkins’s wounds. "’Is _’ead_, do ye mean, sir?" demanded the escort.... "O-o-o-h! _That_ don’t matter, sir.... _It’s ’is birthday_." "Oh," said the doctor, applying stitches, "I see. A celebration?" "On’y his birthday, sir: just a plain birthday. ’E’s thirty-two to-day, ole Bill is. It’s ’is birthday, see?" The doctor did see, and he stitched away emphatically. Mr. Dawkins left off singing. And when the repairs had been completed, it appeared that their influence had extended far beyond the damaged forehead. Mr. Dawkins sat up in his chair a sober man. "Cheer up, Bill!" exhorted his bodyguard in chorus. "I am cheered up," responded William, with a November edition of the smile. "My name is Dawkins. On’y—on’y me nose itches. Got ’ny biceps, Doctor?" "Eh? What?" snapped the doctor. "Biceps, ole love. For pullin’ teeth. My name is William Dawkins, and when I does a job I does it thorough. What’s the good o’ makin’ two journeys if you can do yere business in one? Ain’t that logic? Of course it is. My name is Dawkins. So fetch out the biceps, Doctor. You’ll find ’im back there on the right ’and side, sittin’ by ’isself in the pit, a ugly, lop-sided sot ’e is, with a ’ole in ’is middle. Fetch out the biceps." "Do you really want your tooth out?" asked the doctor doubtfully. "You’ve lost a lot of blood, you know. Don’t—don’t you think perhaps that at some future——" Mr. Dawkins rose up from his seat. "My name is Dawkins," he said simply, "and I’ve ordered one biceps. If you don’t like the contrac’, Doctor, there’s many another bloke ’ll be glad of my custom. Don’t make no trouble, Doctor. I’m a friendly bloke. But me name is Dawkins. I likes to soot me fancy. I got a fancy for to shift this tooth. Me and this tooth we don’t soot each other. I get a fancy sometimes, too, as I’ll have me leg took off, because——" "About this tooth, now," said the doctor, with haste; "I’m ready when you are."