Yes, I practise it as other men practise bone-setting or surgical operations. I know my drugs, I know my doses, and, best of all, I know the effects—all by practise. But, unfortunately, the patients I have been compelled to practise upon till I had attained proficiency have, in many cases, been carried to their grave, and there interred upon my own certificate.
But I was telling you of the boy Ronald Snell, who was with me that night in the Empire.
Well, it happened in this way.
One August morning, about half-past ten o'clock, I was in the surgery of my old friend, Doctor Thring, in Alexandra Road, St. John's Wood. He had been called up to Dundee to see his brother who was dying, and had wired asking me to look after his practice for three days. He had a large one in and around Regent's Park, Chalk Farm, Kilburn and Hampstead, and in addition held the oflice of divisional surgeon of police. I had known him ever since our old days at Guy's, where Golding-Bird had picked him out as a coming surgeon—and so he was. He had already made his mark, while I—well, I had, perhaps, left my mark in another direction.
