that night a great storm rose. mahony, sitting reading after everyone else had retired, saw it coming, and lamp in hand went round the house to secure hasps and catches; then stood at the window to watch the storm’s approach. in one half of the sky the stars were still peacefully alight; the other was hidden by a dense cloud, which came racing along like a giant bat with outspread wings, devouring the stars in its flight. the storm broke; there was a sudden shrill screeching, a grinding, piping, whistling, and the wind hurled itself against the house as if to level it with the ground; failing in this, it banged and battered, making windows and doors shake like loose teeth in their sockets. then it swept by to wreak its fury elsewhere, and there was a grateful lull out of which burst a peal of thunder. and now peal followed peal, and the face of the sky, with its masses of swirling, frothy cloud, resembled an angry sea. the lightning ripped it in fierce zigzags, darting out hundreds of spectral fangs. it was a magnificent sight.

polly came running to see where he was, the child cried, miss tilly opened her door by a hand’s-breadth, and thrust a red, puffy face, framed in curl-twists, through the crack. nobody thought of sleep while the commotion lasted, for fear of fire: once alight, these exposed little wooden houses blazed up like heaps of shavings. the clock-hands pointed to one before the storm showed signs of abating. now, the rain was pouring down, making an ear-splitting din on the iron roof and leaping from every gutter and spout. it had turned very cold. mahony shivered as he got into bed.

he seemed hardly to have closed an eye when he was wakened by a loud knocking; at the same time the wire of the night-bell was almost wrenched in two. he sat up and looked at his watch. it wanted a few minutes to three; the rain was still falling in torrents, the wind sighed and moaned. wild horses should not drag him out on such a night! thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his dressing-gown, he threw up the parlour window. “who’s there?” the hiss of the rain cut his words through.

a figure on the doorstep turned at the sound. “is this a doctor’s? i wuz sent here. doctor! for god’s sake . . .”

“what is it? stop a minute! i’ll open the door.”

he did so, letting in a blast of wind and a rush of rain that flooded the oilcloth. the intruder, off whom the water streamed, had to shout to make himself audible.

“it’s me — mat doyle’s me name! it’s me wife, doctor; she’s dying. i’ve bin all night on the road. ah, for the love of —”

“where is it?” mahony put his hand to the side of his mouth, to keep his words from flying adrift in the wind.

“paddy’s rest. you’re the third i’ve bin to. not one of the dirty dogs’ull stir a leg! me girl may die like a rabbit for all they care.”— the man’s voice broke, as he halloed particulars.

“paddy’s rest? on a night like this? why, the creek will be out.”

“doctor! you’re from th’ ould country, i can hear it in your lip. haven’t you a wife, too, doctor? then show a bit o’ mercy to mine!”

“tut, tut, man, none of that!” said mahony curtly. “you should have bespoken me at the proper time to attend your wife.— besides, there’ll be no getting along the road to-night.”

the other caught the note of yielding. “sure an’ you’d go out, doctor dear, without thinkin’, to save your dog if he was drownin’. i’ve got me buggy down there; i’ll take you safe. and you shan’t regret it; i’ll make it worth your while, by the lord harry i will!”

“pshaw!”— mahony opened the door of the surgery and struck a match. it was a rough grizzled fellow — a “cocky,” on his own showing — who presented himself in the lamplight. his wife had fallen ill that afternoon. at first everything seemed to be going well; then she was seized with fits, had one fit after another, and all but bit her tongue in two. there was nobody with her but a young girl he had fetched from a mile away. he had meant, when her time came, to bring her to the district hospital. but they had been taken unawares. while he waited he sat with his elbows on his knees, his face between his clenched fists.

in dressing, mahony reassured polly, and instructed her what to say to people who came inquiring after him; it was unlikely he would be back before afternoon. most of the patients could wait till then. the one exception, a case of typhoid in its second week, a young scotch surgeon, brace, whom he had obliged in a similar emergency, would no doubt see for him — she should send ellen down with a note. and having poured doyle out a nobbler and put a flask in his own pocket, mahony reopened the front door to the howl of the wind.

the lantern his guide carried shed only a tiny circlet of light on the blackness; and the two men picked their steps gingerly along the flooded road. the rain ran in jets off the brim of mahony’s hat, and down the back of his neck.

having climbed into the buggy they advanced at a funeral pace, leaving it to the sagacity of the horse to keep the track. at the creek, sure enough, the water was out, the bridge gone. to reach the next bridge, five miles off, a crazy cross-country drive would have been necessary; and mahony was for giving up the job. but doyle would not acknowledge defeat. he unharnessed the horse, set mahony on its back, and himself holding to its tail, forced the beast, by dint of kicking and lashing, into the water; and not only got them safely across, but up the steep sticky clay of the opposite bank. it was six o’clock and a cloudless morning when, numb with cold, his clothing clinging to him like wet seaweed, mahony entered the wooden hut where the real work he had come out to do began.

later in the day, clad in an odd collection of baggy garments, he sat and warmed himself in the sun, which was fast drawing up in the form of a blankety mist the moisture from the ground. he had successfully performed, under the worst possible conditions, a ticklish operation; and was now so tired that, with his chin on his chest, he fell fast asleep.

doyle wakened him by announcing the arrival of the buggy. the good man, who had more than one nobbler during the morning could not hold his tongue, but made still another wordy attempt to express his gratitude. “whither me girl lives or dies, it’ll not be mat doyle who forgits what you did for him this night, doctor! an’ if iver you want a bit o’ work done, or some one to do your lyin’ awake at night for you, just you gimme the tip. i don’t mind tellin’ you now, i’d me shootin’-iron here” — he touched his right hip —“an’ if you’d refused — you was the third, mind you,— i’d have drilled you where you stood, god damn me if i wouldn’t!”

mahony eyed the speaker with derision. “much good that would have done your wife, you fathead! well, well, we’ll say nothing to mine, if you please, about anything of that sort.”

“no, may all the saints bless ‘er and give ‘er health! an’ as i say, doctor. . . .” in speaking he had drawn a roll of bank-notes from his pocket, and now he tried to stuff them between mahony’s fingers.

“what’s this? my good man, keep your money till it’s asked for!” and mahony unclasped his hands, so that the notes fluttered to the ground.

“then there let ’em lay!”

but when, in clothes dried stiff as cardboard, mahony was rolling townwards — his coachman, a lad of some ten or twelve who handled the reins to the manner born — as they went he chanced to feel in his coat pocket, and there found five ten-pound notes rolled up in a neat bundle.

the main part of the road was dry and hard again; but all dips and holes were wells of liquid mud, which bespattered the two of them from top to toe as the buggy bumped carelessly in and out. mahony diverted himself by thinking of what he could give polly with this sum. it would serve to buy that pair of gilt cornices or the heavy gilt-framed pierglass on which she had set her heart. he could see her, pink with pleasure, expostulating: “richard! what wicked extravagance!” and hear himself reply: “and pray may my wife not have as pretty a parlour as her neighbours?” he even cast a thought, in passing, on the pianoforte with which polly longed to crown the furnishings of her room — though, of course, at least treble this amount would be needed to cover its cost.— but a fig for such nonsense! he knew but one legitimate use to make of the unexpected little windfall, and that was, to put it by for a rainy day. “at my age, in my position, i ought to have fifty pounds in the bank!”— times without number he had said this to himself, with a growing impatience. but he had not yet managed to save a halfpenny. thrive as the practice might, the expenses of living held even pace with it. and now, having got its cue, his brain started off again on the old treadmill, reckoning, totting up, finding totals, or more often failing to find them, till his head was as hot as his feet were cold. to-day he could not think clearly at all.

nor the next day either. by the time he reached home he was conscious of feeling very ill: he had lancinating pains in his limbs, a chill down his spine, an outrageous temperature. to set out again on a round of visits was impossible. he had just to tumble into bed.

he got between the sheets with that sense of utter well-being, of almost sensual satisfaction, which only one who is shivering with fever knows. and at first very small things were enough to fill him with content: the smoothness of the pillow’s sleek linen; the shadowy light of the room after long days spent in the dusty glare outside; the possibility of resting, the knowledge that it was his duty to rest; polly’s soft, firm hands, which were always of the right temperature — warm in the cold stage, cool when the fever scorched him, and neither hot nor cold when the dripping sweats came on. but as the fever declined, these slight pleasures lost their hold. then he was ridden to death by black thoughts. not only was day being added to day, he meanwhile not turning over a penny; but ideas which he knew to be preposterous insinuated themselves in his brain. thus, for hours on end he writhed under the belief that his present illness was due solely to the proximity of the great swamp, and lay and cursed his folly in having chosen just this neighbourhood to build in. again, there was the case of typhoid he had been anxious about, prior to his own breakdown: under his locum, peritonitis had set in and carried off the patient. at the time he had accepted the news from polly’s lips with indifference — too ill to care. but a little later the knowledge of what it meant broke over him, and he suffered the tortures of the damned. not brace; he alone would be held responsible for the death; and perhaps not altogether unjustly. lying there, a prey to morbid apprehensions, he rebuilt the case in memory, struggling to recall each slight variation in temperature, each swift change for better or worse; but as fast as he captured one such detail, his drowsy brain let the last but one go, and he had to beat it up anew. during the night he grew confident that the relatives of the dead woman intended to take action against him, for negligence or improper attendance.

an attempt to speak of these devilish imaginings to wife and friend was a failure. he undertook it in a fit of desperation, when it seemed as if only a strong and well grounded opposition would save his reason. but this was just what he could not get. purdy, whom he tried first, held the crude notion that a sick person should never be gainsaid; and soothingly sympathised and agreed, till mahony could have cried aloud at such blundering stupidity. polly did better; she contradicted him. but not in the right way. she certainly pooh-poohed his idea of the nearness of yuille’s swamp making the house unhealthy; but she did not argue the matter, step by step, and convince him that he was wrong. she just laughed at him as at a foolish child, and kissed him, and tucked him in anew. and when it came to the typhoid’s fatal issue, she had not the knowledge needed to combat him with any chance of success. she heard him anxiously out, and allowed herself to be made quite nervous over a possible fault on his part, so jealous was she for his growing reputation.

so that in the end it was he who had to comfort her.

“don’t take any notice of what i say to-day, wife. it’s this blessed fever. . . . i’m light-headed, i think.”

but he could hear her uneasily consulting with purdy in the passage.

it was not till his pulse beat normally again that he could smile at his exaggerated fears. now, too, reviving health brought back a wholesome interest in everyday affairs. he listened with amusement to polly’s account of the shifts purdy was reduced to, to enter the house unseen by miss tilly. on his faithful daily call, the young man would creep round by the back door, and tilly was growing more and more irate at her inability to waylay him. yes, polly was rather redly forced to admit, she had abetted him in his evasions. (“you know, poll, i might just as well tie myself up to old mother b. herself and be done with it!”) out of sheer pique tilly had twice now accepted old mr. ocock’s invitation to drive with him. once, she had returned with a huge bag of lollies; and once, with a face like a turkey-cock. polly couldn’t help thinking . . . no, really, richard, she could not! . . . that perhaps something might come of it. he should not laugh; just wait and see.

many inquiries had been made after him. people had missed their doctor, it seemed, and wanted him back. it was a real red-letter day when he could snap to the catches of his gloves again, and mount the step of a buggy.

he had instructed purdy to arrange for the hire of this vehicle, saddle-work being out of the question for him in the meantime. and on his first long journey — it led him past doyle’s hut, now, he was sorry to see, in the hands of strangers; for the wife, on the way to making a fair recovery, had got up too soon, overtaxed her strength and died, and the broken-hearted husband was gone off no one knew where — on this drive, as mile after mile slid from under the wheels, mahony felt how grateful was the screen of a hood between him and the sun.

while he was laid up, the eternal question of how to live on his income had left him, relatively speaking, in peace. he had of late adopted the habit of doing his scraping and saving at the outset of each quarter, so as to get the money due to ocock put by betimes. his illness had naturally made a hole in this; and now the living from hand to mouth must begin anew.

with what remained of doyle’s money he proposed to settle his account at the livery-stable. then the unexpected happened. his reappearance — he looked very thin and washed-out — evidently jogged a couple of sleepy memories. simultaneously two big bills were paid, one of which he had entirely given up. in consequence, he again found himself fifty pounds to the good. and driving to ocock’s office, on term day, he resolved to go on afterwards to the bank of australasia and there deposit this sum.

grindle, set off by a pair of flaming “sideboards,” himself ushered mahony into the sanctum, and the affair was disposed of in a trice. ocock was one of the busiest of men nowadays — he no longer needed to invent sham clients and fictitious interviews — and he utilised the few odd minutes it took to procure a signature, jot down a note, open a drawer, unlock a tin box to remark abstractedly on the weather and put a polite inquiry: “and your good lady? in the best of health, i trust?”

on emerging from the inner room, mahony saw that the places formerly filled by tom and johnny were occupied by strangers; and he was wondering whether it would be indiscreet to ask what had become of the brothers, when ocock cut across his intention. “by the way, jenkins, has that memorandum i spoke of been drawn up?” he turned to a clerk.

with a sheet of foolscap in his hand, he invited mahony with a beck of the chin to re-enter his room. “half a moment! now, doctor, if you happen to have a little money lying idle, i can put you on to a good thing — a very good thing indeed. i don’t know, i’m sure, whether you keep an eye on the fluctuations of the share-market. if so, you’ll no doubt have noticed the . . . let me say the extreme instability of ‘porepunkahs.’ after making an excellent start, they have dropped till they are now to be had at one-twentieth of their original value.”

he did not take much interest in mining matters was mahony’s reply. however he knew something of the claim in question, if only because several of his acquaintances had abandoned their shares, in disgust at the repeated calls and the lack of dividends.

“exactly. well now, doctor, i’m in a position to inform you that ‘porepunkahs’ will very shortly be prime favourites on the market, selling at many times their original figure — their original figure, sir! no one with a few hundreds to spare could find a better investment. now is the time to buy.”

a few hundreds! . . . what does he take me for? thought mahony; and declined the transaction off-hand. it was very good of mr. ocock to think of him; but he preferred to keep clear of that kind of thing.

“quite so, quite so!” returned ocock suavely, and dry-washed his hands with the smile mahony had never learnt to fathom. “just as you please, of course.— i’ll only ask you, doctor, to treat the matter as strictly confidential.”

“i suppose he says the same to everyone he tells,” was mahony’s comment as he flicked up his horse; and he wondered what the extent might be of the lawyer’s personal interest in the “porepunkah company.” probably the number of shareholders was not large enough to rake up the capital.

still, the incident gave him food for thought, and only after closing time did he remember his intention of driving home by way of the bank.

later in the day he came back on the incident, and pondered his abrupt refusal of ocock’s offer. there was nothing unusual in this: he never took advice well; and, was it forced upon him, nine times out of ten a certain inborn contrariness drove him to do just the opposite. besides, he had not yet learned to look with lenience on the rage for speculation that had seized the people of ballarat; and he held that it would be culpable for a man of his slender means to risk money in the great game. — but was there any hint of risk in the present instance? to judge from ocock’s manner, the investment was as safe as a house, and lucrative to a degree that made one’s head swim. “many times their original figure!” an arabian-nights fashion of growing rich, and no mistake! very different from the laborious grind of his days, in which he had always to reckon with the chance of not being paid at all. that very afternoon had brought him a fresh example of this. he was returning from the old magpie lead, where he had been called to a case of scarlet fever, and saw himself covering the same road daily for some time to come. but he had learned to adjudge his patients in a winking; and these, he could swear to it, would prove to be non-payers; of a kind even to cut and run, once the child was out of danger. was he really justified, cramped for money as he was, in rejecting the straight tip ocock had given him? and he debated this moot point — argued his need against his principles — the whole way home.

as soon as he had changed and seen his suspect clothing hung out to air, he went impetuously back to ocock’s office. he had altered his mind. a small gift from a grateful patient: yes, fifty, please; they might bring him luck.— and he saw his name written down as the owner of half a hundred shares.

after this, he took a new interest in the mining sheet of the star; turned to it, indeed, first of all. for a week, a fortnight, “porepunkahs” remained stationary; then they made a call, and, if he did not wish to forfeit, he had to pay out as many shillings as he held shares. a day or two later they sank a trifle, and mahony’s hopes with them. there even came a day when they were not mentioned; and he gave up his money for lost. but of a sudden they woke to life again, took an upward bound, and within a month were quoted at five pounds — on rumour alone. “very sensitive indeed,” said the star. purdy, his only confidant, went about swearing at himself for having let the few he owned lapse; and mahony itched to sell. he could now have banked two hundred and fifty pounds.

but ocock laughed him out of countenance — even went so far as to pat him on the shoulder. on no account was he to think of selling. “sit tight, doctor . . . sit tight! till i say the word.”

and mahony reluctantly obeyed.