Among the Wilton colliery folk he was known 杭州桑拿按摩好去处 distinctively as “the doctor.” A man of finer 杭州没有桑拿了 fibre might have been wasted amid such surroundings. 杭州油压按摩会所体验Dr. Tugler, florid, bumptious, ever ready with a semi-decent joke, and boasting an aggressive yet generous aplomb, contrived to impress his uncultured clients with a sense of sufficiency and of rough-and-ready power. But for his frock-coat, and for the binoral stethoscope that dangled from the top button of his fancy waistcoat, he might have been taken for a prosperous publican, a bookmaker, or a butcher.

Dr. Tugler swept the remaining small change into his bag, locked it, and jumped up with the air of a man eminently satisfied with the day’s trade. The assistant at the other table was pencilling a few notes into a pocket-book, and humming the tune of a popular, music-hall song. The surgery door opened as Dr. Tugler deposited the black bag on the mantel-shelf, and a swarthy collier, 杭州夜生活群 with one hand bandaged, came slouching out,杭州滨江按摩不正规的 swinging an old cap.

“Good-night, doctor.”

Dr. Tugler faced round with his hands stuffed into his trousers pockets.

“Hallo, Smith, find the knife sharp, eh?”

The man grinned, and glanced at his bandaged hand.

“There was a tidy lot of muck in it,” he said.

“Good thing we’ve saved the finger. Paid your bob, eh? Right. Keep off the booze, and go straight home to the missus.”

Tugler turned down the gas-jets, and entered the surgery. A big man in a white cotton coat was bending over the sink and washing a porcelain tray under the hot-water tap. Blood-stained swabs of wool lay in an old paper basket under the sink. A couple of scalpels, a pair of dressing forceps and scissors, a roll of lint, dental forceps still clutching a decayed tooth, an excised cyst floating in a bowl of blood-杭州按摩图片 stained water, such were the details that 杭州足丝会所怎么样completed the picture of a general surgeon at work.

Dr. 杭州住家spa养生会所 Tugler cast a quick and observant glance round the room, turned down the gas a little, and counted the bandages in a card-board box on the dresser.

“Feel fagged, Murchison, eh?”

The big man turned, his lined and powerful face


wearing a look of patient self-restraint.


“Be easy on the bandages,” and Dr. Tugler gave a frowning wink; “we can’t do the beggars à la West End on a bob a time.”

The big man nodded, and began to clean his knives.

“A message has just come round from Cinder Lane, No. 10. Primip. Glad if you’d see to it. I feel dead fagged myself.”

An almost imperceptible sigh and a slight deepening of the lines about Murchison’s mouth escaped Dr. Tugler’s notice.

Related Post