The host of the "Bull" where I had my modest lunch
explained the mystery to some extent by saying that, as
there was pure country with hardly a hamlet for nearly
twelve miles in every direction, it was in these
scattered farm-houses that the Stockwell doctors found
their patients. As I chatted with him a middle-aged,
dusty-booted man trudged up the street. "There's Dr.
Adam," said he. "He's only a new-comer, but they say
that some o' these days he'll be starting his carriage."
"What do you mean by a new-comer?" I asked. "Oh, he's
scarcely been here ten years," said the landlord. "Thank
you," said I. "Can you tell me when the next train
leaves for Bradfield?" So back I came, rather heavy
at heart, and having spent ten or twelve shillings which
I could ill afford. My fruitless journey seemed a small
thing, however, when I thought of the rising Stockwellite
with his ten years and his dusty boots. I can trudge
along a path, however rough, if it will but lead to
something; but may kindly Fate keep me out of all cul-
de-sacs!
The Cullingworths did not receive me cordially upon
my return. There was a singular look upon both their
faces which seemed to ME to mean that they were
disappointed at this hitch in getting rid of me. When I
think of their absolute geniality a few days ago, and
their markedly reserved manner now, I can make no sense
out of it. I asked Cullingworth point blank what it
meant, but he only turned it off with a forced laugh, and
some nonsense about my thin skin.
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