I had no one at all to look to for help, for all my
recent letters from home had given a dreary account of
the state of things there. My poor father's health and
his income were dwindling together. On the other hand,
I reflected that there were some points in my favour. I
was young. I was energetic. I had been brought up hard,
and was quite prepared to rough it. I was well up in my
work, and believed I could get on with patients. My
house was an excellent one for my purpose, and I had
already put the essentials of furniture into it. The
game was not played out yet. I jumped to my feet and
clenched my hand, and swore to the chandelier that it
never should be played out until I had to beckon for help
from the window.
For the next three days I had not a single ring at
the bell of any sort whatever. A man could not be more
isolated from his kind. It used to amuse me to sit
upstairs and count how many of the passers-by stopped to
look at my plate. Once (on a Sunday morning) there were
over a hundred in an hour, and often I could see
from their glancing over their shoulders as they walked
on, that they were thinking or talking of the new doctor.
This used to cheer me up, and make me feel that
something was going on.
Every night between nine and ten I slip out and do my
modest shopping, having already made my MENU for the
coming day. I come back usually with a loaf of bread, a
paper of fried fish, or a bundle of saveloys.
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