Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) (1027 page)

“So they would,” said I; “but hang it, you can’t expect me to tumble off the cathedral spire, in order that you may hold an inquest on my remains! I You may command me in anything reasonable, however. What shall it be?”

Tom seemed lost in thought. “Can you swim?” he said presently.

“Fairly well.”

“You could keep yourself afloat for five minutes?”

“Yes, I could do that.”

“You’re not afraid of water?”

“I’m not much afraid of anything.”

“Then come out,” said Tom, “and we’ll go over the ground.”

I couldn’t get one word out of him as to his intentions, so I trotted along beside him, wondering what in the wide world he was going to do. Our first stoppage was at a small dock which is crossed by a swinging iron bridge. He hailed an amphibious man with top-boots. “Do you keep rowing-boats and let them out?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” said the man.

“Then good day,” and to the boatman’s profound and audible disgust we set off at once in the other direction.

Our next stoppage was at the Jolly Mariner’s Arms. Did they keep beds? Yes, they kept beds. We then proceeded to the chemist’s. Did he keep a galvanic battery? Once again the answer was in the affirmative, and with a satisfied smile Tom Crabbe headed for home once more, leaving some very angry people behind him.

That evening over a bowl of punch he revealed his plan — and the council of three revised it, modified it, and ended by adopting it, with the immediate result that I at once changed my quarters to the Brisport Hotel.

I was awakened next day by the sun streaming in at my bedroom window. It was a glorious morning. I sprang out of bed and looked at my watch. It was nearly nine o’clock. “Only an hour,” I muttered, “and nearly a mile to walk,” and proceeded to dress with all the haste I could. “Well,” I soliloquised as I sharpened my razor, “if old Tom Crabbe doesn’t get his name in the papers to-day, it isn’t my fault. I wonder if any friend would do as much for me!” I finished my toilet, swallowed a cup of coffee and sallied out.

Brisport seemed unusually lively this morning. The streets were crowded with people. I wormed my way down Waterloo Street through the old Square and past Crabbe’s house. The cathedral bells were chiming ten o’clock as I reached the above-mentioned little dock with the iron swinging bridge. A man was standing on the bridge leaning over the balustrades. There was no mistaking the heart-broken hat rim and the spectacles of Thomas Waterhouse Crabbe, M.B.

I passed him without sign of recognition, dawdled a little on the quay, and then sauntered down to the boathouse. Our friend of yesterday was standing at the door with a short pipe in his mouth.

“Could I have a boat for an hour?” I asked.

He beamed all over. “One minute, sir,” he said, “an’ I’ll get the sculls. Would you want me to row you, sir?”

“Yes, you’d better,” I replied.

He bustled about, and in a short time managed to launch a leaky-looking old tub, into which he stepped, while I squatted down in the sheets.

“Take me round the docks,” I said. “I want to have a look at the shipping.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said he, and away we went, and paddled about the docks for the best part of an hour. At the end of that time we turned back and pulled up to the little quay from which he had started. It was past eleven now and the place was crowded with people. Half Brisport seemed to have concentrated round the iron bridge. The melancholy hat was still visible.

“Shall I pull in, sir?” asked the boatman.

“Give me the sculls,” said I. “I want a bit of exercise — let us change places,” and I stood up.

“Take care, sir!” yelled the boatman as I gave a stagger. “Look out!” and he made a frantic grab at me, but too late, for with a melodramatic scream I reeled and fell over into the Brisport dock.

I hardly realised what it was I was going to do until I had done it. It was not a pleasant feeling to have the thick, clammy water closing over one’s head. I struck the bottom with my feet, and shot up again to the surface. The air seemed alive with shouts. “Heave a rope!” “Where’s a boat-hook!” “Catch him!” “There he is!” The boatman managed to hit me me a smart blow on the head with something, an oar, I fancy, and I went down again, but not before I had got my lungs well filled with air. I came up again and my top-booted friend seized me by the hair of my head as if he would tear my scalp off. “Don’t struggle!” he yelled, “and I’ll save you yet.” But I shook him off, and took another plunge. There was no resisting him next time, however, for he got a boat-hook into my collar, and though I kept my head under water as long as possible I was ignominiously hauled to land.

There I lay on the hard stones of the quay, feeling very much inclined to laugh, but looking, no doubt, very blue and ghastly. “He’s gone, poor chap!” said some one. “Send for a doctor.” “Run, run to Markham.” “Quite dead.” “Turn him upside down.” “Feel his pulse.” “Slap him on the back.”

“Stop,” said a solemn voice—”stop! Can I be of any assistance? I am a medical man. What has occurred?”

“A man drowned,” cried a score of voices. “Stand back, make a ring — room for the doctor!”

“My name is Doctor Crabbe. Dear me, poor young gentleman! Drop his hand,” he roared at a man who was making for my pulse. “I tell you in such a state the least pressure or impediment to the arterial circulation might prove fatal.”

To save my life I couldn’t help giving a very audible inward chuckle at Tom’s presence of mind. There was a murmur of surprise among the crowd. Tom solemnly took off his hat. “The death rattle!” he whispered. “The young soul has flown — yet perchance science may yet recall it. Bear him up to the tavern.”

A shutter was brought, I was solemnly hoisted on to the top of it, and the melancholy cortège passed along the quay, the corpse being really the most cheerful member of the company.

We got to the Mariner’s Arms and I was stripped and laid in the best bed. The news of the accident seemed to have spread, for there was a surging crowd in the street, and the staircase was thronged with people. Tom would only admit about a dozen of the more influential of the townspeople into the room, but issued bulletins out of the window every five minutes to the crowd below.

“Quite dead,” I heard him roar. “Respiration has ceased — no pulsation — but we still persevere, it is our duty.”

“Shall I bring brandy?” said the landlady.

“Yes, and towels, and a hip bath and a basin — but the brandy first.”

This sentiment met with the hearty approbation of the corpse.

“Why, he’s drinking it,” said the landlady, as she applied the glass to my lips.

“Merely an instance of a reflex automatic action,” said Tom. “My good woman, any corpse will drink brandy if you only apply it to the glossopharyngeal tract. Stand aside and we will proceed to try Marshall Hall’s method of resuscitation.”

The citizens stood round in a solemn ring, while Tom stripped off his coat and, climbing on the bed, proceeded to roll me about in a manner which seemed to dislocate every bone in my body.

“Hang it, man, stop!” I growled, but he only paused to make a dart for the window and yell out “No sign of life,” and then fell upon me with greater energy than ever. “We will now try Sylvestre’s method,” he said, when the perspiration was fairly boiling out of him; and with that he seized me again, and performed a series of evolutions even more excruciating than the first. “It is hopeless!” he said at last, stopping and covering my head reverently with the bed-clothes. “Send for the coroner! He has gone to a better land. Here is my card,” he continued to an inspector of police who had arrived. “Doctor Crabbe of George Street. You will see that the matter is accurately reported. Poor young man!” And Tom drew his handkerchief across his eyes and walked towards the door, while a groan of sympathy rose from the crowd outside.

He had his hand upon the handle when a thought seemed to strike him, and he turned back. “There is yet a possible hope,” he said, “we have not tried the magical effects of electricity — that subtle power, next of kin to nervous force. Is there a chemist’s near?”

“Yes, doctor, there’s Mr. McLagan just round the corner.”

“Then run! run! A human life trembles in the balance — get his strongest battery, quick!” And away went half the crowd racing down the street and tumbling over each other in the effort to be first at Mr. McLagan’s. They came back very red and hot, and one of them bore a shining brown mahogany box in his arms which contained the instrument in question.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Tom, “I believe I may say that I am the first practitioner in Great Britain who has applied electricity to this use. In my student days I have seen the learned Rokilansky of Vienna employ it in some such way. I apply the negative pole over the solar plexus, while the positive I place on the inner side of the patella. I have seen it produce surprising effects; it may again in this case.”

It certainly did. Whether it was an accident or whether Tom’s innate reckless devilry got the better of him I cannot say. He himself always swore that it was an accident, but at any rate he sent the strongest current of a most powerful battery rattling and crashing through my system. I gave one ear-splitting yell and landed with a single bound into the middle of the room. I was charged with electricity like a Leyden jar. My very hair bristled with it.

“You confounded idiot!” I shouted, shaking my fist in Tom’s face. “Isn’t it enough to dislocate every bone in my body with your ridiculous resuscitations without ruining my constitution with this thing?” and I gave a vicious kick at the mahogany box. Never was there such a stampede! The inspector of police and the correspondent of the
Chronicle
sprang down the staircase, followed by the twelve respectable citizens. The landlady crawled under the bed. A lodger who was nursing her baby while she conversed with a neighbour in the street below let the child drop upon her friend’s head. In fact Tom might have founded the nucleus of a practice there and then. As it was, his usual presence of mind carried him through. “A miracle!” he yelled from the window. “A miracle! Our friend has been brought back to us; send for a cab.” And then
sotto voce
, “For goodness’ sake, Jack, behave like a Christian and crawl into bed again. Remember the landlady is in the room and don’t go prancing about in your shirt.”

“Hang the landlady,” said I, “I feel like a lightning conductor — you’ve ruined me!”

“Poor fellow,” cried Tom, once more addressing the crowd, “he is alive, but his intellect is irretrievably affected. He thinks he is a lightning conductor. Make way for the cab. That’s right! Now help me to lead him in. He is out of all danger now. He can dress at his hotel. If any of you have any information to give which may throw light upon this case my address is 81 George Street. Remember, Doctor Crabbe, 81 George Street. Good day, kind friends, good-bye!” And with that he bundled me into the cab to prevent my making any further disclosures, and drove off amid the enthusiastic cheers of the admiring crowd.

I could not stay in Brisport long enough to see the effect of my
coup d’état
. Tom gave us a champagne supper that night, and the fun was fast and furious, but in the midst of it a telegram from my principal was handed in ordering me to return to Manchester by the next train. I waited long enough to get an early copy of the
Brisport Chronicle
, and beguiled the tedious journey by perusing the glowing account of my mishap. A column and a half was devoted to Dr. Crabbe and the extraordinary effects of electricity upon a drowned man. It ultimately got into some of the London papers, and was gravely commented upon in the
Lancet
.

As to the pecuniary success of our little experiment I can only judge from the following letter from Tom Crabbe, which I transcribe exactly as I received it:

“What Ho! My resuscitated Corpse,

“You want to know how all goes in Brisport, I suppose. Well, I’ll tell you. I’m cutting Markham and Davidson out completely, my boy. The day after our little joke I got a bruised leg (that baby), a cut head (the woman the baby fell upon), an erysipelas, and a bronchitis. Next day a fine rich cancer of Markham’s threw him up and came over to me. Also a pneumonia and a man who swallowed a sixpence. I’ve never had a day since without half a dozen new names on the list, and I’m going to start a trap this week. Just let me know when you are going to set up, and I’ll manage to run down, old man, and give you a start in business, if I have to stand on my head in the water-butt. Good-bye. Love from the Missus.

“Ever yours,
“Thomas Waterhouse Crabbe,
“M.B. Edin.

“81 George Street,
“Brisport.”

THE END