Part 9 (1/2)
The following day while walking to the hospital, I noticed a group of people down a side street, apparently looking intently at something unusual. I turned aside to see what it was. About twenty persons, mostly errand boys, were standing round a sandwich-board man. At the outskirts of the circle, I raised myself on tip-toe and peered over the heads of those in front. The sandwich-board man's back was towards me.
”What's the matter?” I asked of my neighbour.
”One of the blue freaks from Birmingham,” was the reply.
My first impulse was to fly. Here I was in close proximity to my handiwork. I turned and made off a few paces. But curiosity overmastered me, and I came back. The man was now facing me, and I could see him distinctly through a gap in the crowd. It was a thin, unshaven face with straightened features and gaunt cheeks. The eyes were deeply sunken and at that moment turned downwards. His complexion was pale, but I could see a faint bluish tinge suffusing the skin, that gave it a strange, dead look. And then the man lifted his eyes and gazed straight at me. I caught my breath, for under the black eye brows, the whites of the eyes were stained a pure sparrow-egg blue.
”I came from Birmingham yesterday,” I heard him saying. ”There ain't nothing the matter with me.”
”You ought to go to a fever hospital,” said someone.
”We don't want that blue stuff in London,” added another.
”Perhaps it's catching,” said the first speaker.
In a flash everyone had drawn back. The sandwich-board man stood in the centre of the road alone looking sharply round him. Suddenly a wave of rage seemed to possess him. He shook his fist in the air, and even as he shook it, his eyes caught the blue sheen of the tense skin over the knuckles. He stopped, staring stupidly, and the rage pa.s.sed from his face, leaving it blank and incredulous.
”Lor' lumme,” he muttered. ”If that ain't queer.”
He held out his hand, palm downwards. And from the pavement I saw that the man's nails were as blue as pieces of turquoise.
The sun came out from behind a pa.s.sing cloud and sent a sudden flame of radiance over the scene in the side street--the sandwich-board man, his face still blank and incredulous, staring stupidly at his hands; the crowd standing well back in a wide semi-circle; I further forward, peering through my spectacles and clutching my umbrella convulsively.
Then a tall man, in morning coat and top-hat, pushed his way through and touched the man from Birmingham on the shoulder.
”Can you come to my house?” he asked in an undertone. ”I am a doctor and would like to examine you.”
I s.h.i.+fted my gaze and recognized Dr. Symington-Tearle. The man pointed to his boards.
”How about them things?”
”Oh, you can get rid of them. I'll pay you. Here is my card with the address. I'll expect you in half-an-hour, and it will be well worth while your coming.”
Symington-Tearle moved away, and a sudden spasm of jealousy affected me as I watched the well-shaped top-hat glittering down the street in the strong sunlight. Why should Symington-Tearle be given an opportunity of impressing a credulous world with some fantastic rubbish of his own devising? I stepped into the road.
”Do you want a five-pound note?” I asked. The man jumped with surprise.
”Very well. Come round to this address at once.”
I handed him my card. My next move was to telephone to the hospital to say I would be late, and retrace my footsteps homewards.
My visitor arrived in a very short time, after handing over his boards to a comrade on the understanding of suitable compensation, and was shown into my study. Sarakoff was present, and he pored over the man's nails and eyes and skin with rapt attention. At last he enquired how he felt.
”Ain't never felt so well in me life,” said the man. ”I was saying to a pal this morning 'ow well I felt.”
”Do you feel as if you were drunk?” asked Sarakoff tentatively.
”Well, sir, now you put it that way, I feel as if I'd 'ad a good gla.s.s of beer. Not drunk, but 'appy.”
”Are you naturally cheerful?”