The Argosy — page 136: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Roger Bevere. | 123 practice for yourself the minute you had passed. Your mother did well to send the letter to me and ask my advice. Some of you boys—boys, and no better—fresh from your hospital studies, screw a brass-plate on your door, announcing yourselves to the world as qualified surgeons. A few of you go a step further and add M.D.” “Many of us take our degree as physician at once, Uncle John,” said Roger. ‘It is becoming quite the custom.” | Just so: the custom!” retorted Mr. Brandon, cynically. ** Why didn’t you do it, and modestly call yourself Dr. Bevere? In my former days, young man, when some ultra grave ailment necessitated application to a physician, we went to him in all confidence, knowing that he was a man of steady years, of long-tried experience, of prac- tical skill, whose advice was toberelied upon. Now, if you are dying and call in some Dr. So-and-so, you may find him a young fellow of three or four and twenty. As likely as not only an M.B. in reality who has arrogated to himself the title of Doctor. For I hear some of them do it.” : “But they think they have a right to be called so, Uncle John. The question ——” “What right?” sharply demanded Mr. Brandon. ‘“ What gives it them ?” “Well—courtesy, I suppose,” hesitated Roger. * Oh,” said Mr. Brandon. : I laughed. His tone was so quaint. “Yes, you may laugh, Johnny Ludlow—showing your thoughtless- ness! There’ll soon be no modesty left in the world,” he continued; “there'll soon be no hard, plodding work. Formerly, men were content to labour on patiently for years, to attain success, whether in fame, fortune, or for a moderate competency. Now they must take a leap into it. Tradespeople retire before middle-age, merchants make colossal fortunes in a decade, and (to leave other anomalies alone) you random young hospital students spring into practice full- fledged M.D.s.” “The world is changing, Uncle John.” “It is,” assented Mr. Brandon. “I’m not sure that we shall know it by-and-by.” | From Brighton terminus we had a drive of two or three miles across country to get to Prior’s Glebe—as Lady Bevere’s house was named. It was old-fashioned and commodious, and stood in a large Square garden that was encircled by a thick belt of towering shrubs. Nothing was to be seen around it but a huge stretch of waste land; half a mile off, rose a little church and a few scattered cottages. “The girls must find this lively!” exclaimed Roger, taking a com- prehensive look about him as we drove up in the twilight. Lady Bevere, kind, gentle, simple-mannered as ever, received us lovingly. Mr. Brandon kissed her, and she kissed me and Roger. It was the first Christmas Roger had spent at home since rushing CONNIE IOOKS (E(©) m