“Who can he be?” thought I, as I watched my companion in thesecond-class carriage of the London and Dover Railway.
I had been so full of the fact that my long-expected holiday had comeat last, and that for a few days, at least, the gayeties of Paris wereabout to supersede the dull routine of the hospital wards, that we werewell out of London before I observed that I was not alone in thecompartment. In these days we have all pretty well agreed that “three iscompany and two is none” upon the railway. At the time I write of,however, people were not so morbidly sensitive about their travellingcompanions. It was rather an agreeable surprise to me to find that therewas some chance of whiling away the hours of a tedious journey. Itherefore pulled my cap down over my eyes, took a good look from beneathit at my vis-a-vis, and repeated to myself: “Who can he be?”
I used rather to pride myself on being able to spot a man’s trade orprofession by a good look at his exterior. I had the advantage ofstudying under a master of the art, who used to electrify both hispatients and his clinical classes by long shots, sometimes at the mostunlikely of pursuits; and never very far from the mark. “Well, my man,”I have heard him say, “I can see by your fingers that you play somemusical instrument for your livelihood, but it is a rather curious one;something quite out of my line.” The man afterwards informed us that heearned a few coppers by blowing “Rule Britannia” on a coffee-pot, thespout of which was pierced to form a rough flute. Though a novice in theart, I was still able to astonish my ward companions on occasion, and Inever lost an opportunity of practising. It was not mere curiosity,then, which led me to lean back on the cushions and analyze the quietmiddle-aged man in front of me.
I used to do the thing systematically, and my train of reflectionsran somewhat in this wise: “General appearance, vulgar; fairly opulentand extremely self-possessed; looks like a man who could out-chaff abargee, and yet be at his ease in middle-class society. Eyes well settogether and nose rather prominent; would be a good long-range marksman.Cheeks flabby, but the softness of expression redeemed by a square-cutjaw and a well-set lower lip. On the whole, a powerful type. Now for thehands—rather disappointed there. Thought he was a self-made man by thelook of him, but there is no callous in the palm and no thickness at thejoints. Has never been engaged in any real physical work, I shouldthink. No tanning on the backs of the hands; on the contrary, they arevery white, with blue projecting veins and long, delicate fingers.Couldn’t be an artist with that face, and yet he has the hands of a manengaged in delicate manipulations. No red acid spots upon his clothes,no ink stains, no nitrate of silver marks upon the hands (this helps tonegative my half-formed opinion that he was a photographer). Clothes notworn in any particular part. Coat made of tweed, and fairly old; but theleft elbow, as far as I can see it, has as much of the fluff left on asthe right, which is seldom the case with men who do much writing. Mightbe a commercial traveller, but the little pocketbook in the waistcoat iswanting, nor has he any of those handy valises suggestive ofsamples.”
I give these brief headings of my ideas merely to demonstrate mymethod of arriving at a conclusion. As yet I had obtained nothing butnegative results; but now, to use a chemical metaphor, I was in aposition to pour off this solution of dissolved possibilities andexamine the residue. I found myself reduced to a very limited number ofoccupations. He was neither a lawyer nor a clergyman, i