MR SKELMERSDALE IN
FAIRYLAND
'There's a man in that shop,' said the Doctor, 'who has been in Fairyland.'
'Nonsense!' I said, and stared back at the shop. It was the usual village shop, post office, telegraph wire on its brow, zinc pans and brushes outside, boots, shirtings, and potted meats in the window. 'Tell me about it,' I said, after a pause.
'I don't know,' said the Doctor. 'He's an ordinary sort of lout—Skelmersdale is his name. But everybody about here believes it like Bible truth.'
I reverted presently to the topic.
'I know nothing about it,' said the Doctor, 'and I don't want to know. I attended him for a broken finger—Married and Single cricket match—and that's when I struck the nonsense. That's all. But it shows you the sort of stuff I have to deal with, anyhow, eh? Nice to get modern sanitary ideas into a people like this!'
'Very,' I said in a mildly sympathetic tone, and he went on to tell me about that business of the Bonham drain. Things of that kind, I observe, are apt to weigh on the minds of Medical Officers of Health. I was as sympathetic as I knew how, and when he called the Bonham people "asses," I said they were "thundering asses," but even that did not allay him.
Afterwards, later in the summer, an urgent desire to seclude myself, while finishing my chapter on Spiritual Pathology—it was really, I believe, stiffer to write than
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