I thought mine was not so bad (I have done nine chapters), but Cullingworth says he has read it all before, and that it is much too conventional. We must rivet the attention of the public from the start, he says. Certainly, his own is calculated to do so, for it seems to me to be wild rubbish. The end of his first chapter is the only tolerable point that he has made. A fraudulent old baronet is running race-horses on the cross. His son, who is just coming of age, is an innocent youth. The news of the great race of the year has just been received.
"Sir Robert tottered into the room with dry lips and a ghastly face.
"`My poor boy!' he cried. `Prepare for the worst!'
"`Our horse has lost!' cried the young heir, springing from his chair.
"The old man threw himself in agony upon the rug. `No, no!' he screamed. `IT HAS WON!'"
Most of it, however, is poor stuff, and we are each agreed that the other was never meant for a novelist.
So much for our domestic proceedings, and all these little details which you say you like to hear of. Now I must tell you of the great big change in my affairs, and how it came about.
I have told you about the strange, sulky behaviour of Cullingworth, which has been deepening from day to day. Well, it seemed to reach a climax this morning, and on our way to the rooms I could hardly get a word out of him. The place was fairly crowded with patients, but my own share was rather below the average. When I had finished I added a chapter to my novel, and waited until he and his wife were ready for the daily bag-carrying homewards.
It was half-past three before he had done. I heard him stamp out into the passage, and a moment later he came banging into my room. I saw in an instant that some sort of a crisis had come.
"Munro," he cried, "this practice is going to the devil!"
"Ah!" said I. "How's that?
"It's going to little pieces, Munro. I've been taking figures, and I know what I am talking about. A month ago I was seeing six hundred a week. Then I dropped to five hundred and eighty; then to five- seventy-five; and now to five-sixty. What do you think of that?"
"To be honest, I don't think much of it," I answered. "The summer is coming on. You are losing all your coughs and colds and sore throats. Every practice must dwindle at this time of year."
"That's all very well," said he, pacing up and down the room, with his hands thrust into his pockets, and his great shaggy eyebrows knotted together. "You may put it down to that, but I think quite differently about it."
"What do you put it down to, then?"
"To you."
"How's that?" I asked.
"Well," said he, "you must allow that it is a very queer coincidence--if it is a coincidence--that from the day when your plate was put up my practice has taken a turn for the worse."
"I should be very sorry to think it was cause and effect," I answered. "How do you think that my presence could have hurt you?"
"I'll tell you frankly, old chap," said he, putting on suddenly that sort of forced smile which always seems to me to have a touch of a sneer in it. "You see, many of my patients are simple country folk, half imbecile for the most part, but then the half-crown of an imbecile is as good as any other half-crown. They come to my door, and they see two names, and their silly jaws begin to drop, and they say to each other, `There's two of 'em here. It's Dr. Cullingworth we want to see, but if we go in we'll be shown as likely as not to Dr. Munro.' So it ends in some cases in their not coming at all. Then there are the women. Women don't care a toss whether you are a Solomon, or whether you are hot from an asylum. It's all personal with them. You fetch them, or you don't fetch them. I know how to work them, but they won't come if they think they are going to be turned over to anybody else. That's what I put the falling away down to."
"Well," said I, "that's easily set right." I marched out of the room and downstairs, with both Cullingworth and his wife behind me.