"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.
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