The Stark Munro Letters: Being series of twelve letters written by J. Stark Munro, M.B., to his friend and former fellow-student, Herbert Swanborough, of Lowell, Massachusetts, during the years 1881-1884Doyle, Arthur Conan
General
The Stark Munro Letters: Being series of twelve letters written by J. Stark Munro, M.B., to his friend and former fellow-student, Herbert Swanborough, of Lowell, Massachusetts, during the years 1881-1884
Doyle, Arthur Conan
Epistolary fiction
“You’ll see when we get there,” he cried chuckling. “We run this affair
on lines of our own.”
It was not very far, and we soon found ourselves outside a square
whitewashed building, which had a huge “Dr. Cullingworth” on a great
brass plate at the side of the door. Underneath was printed “May be
consulted gratis from ten to four.” The door was open, and I caught a
glimpse of a crowd of people waiting in the hall.
“How many here?” asked Cullingworth of the page boy.
“A hundred and forty, sir.”
“All the waiting rooms full?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Courtyard full?
“Yes, sir.”
“Stable full?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Coach-house full?”
“There’s still room in the coach-house, sir.”
“Ah, I’m sorry we haven’t got a crowded day for you, Munro,” said he.
“Of course, we can’t command these things, and must take them as they
come. Now then, now then, make a gangway, can’t you?”--this to his
patients. “Come here and see the waiting-room. Pooh! what an atmosphere!
Why on earth can’t you open the windows for yourselves? I never saw
such folk! There are thirty people in this room, Munro, and not one with
sense enough to open a window to save himself from suffocation.”
“I tried, sir, but there’s a screw through the sash,” cried one fellow.
“Ah, my boy, you’ll never get on in the world if you can’t open a
window without raising a sash,” said Cullingworth, slapping him on the
shoulder. He took the man’s umbrella and stuck it through two of the
panes of glass.
“That’s the way!” he said. “Boy, see that the screw is taken out. Now
then, Munro, come along, and we’ll get to work.”
We went up a wooden stair, uncarpeted, leaving every room beneath us,
as far as I could see, crowded with patients. At the top was a bare
passage, which had two rooms opposite to each other at one end, and a
single one at the other.
“This is my consulting room,” said he, leading the way into one of
these. It was a good-sized square chamber, perfectly empty save for
two plain wooden chairs and an unpainted table with two books and a
stethoscope upon it. “It doesn’t look like four or five thousand a year,
does it? Now, there is an exactly similar one opposite which you can
have for yourself. I’ll send across any surgical cases which may turn
up. To-day, however, I think you had better stay with me, and see how I
work things.”
“I should very much like to,” said I.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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