Snap Judgment

“Pshaw! Good day to you, William Scorby.” The tall man jerked open the door to the accompanying clangour of the bell, nearly colliding with a Jewish man who stood back to allow him exit. “By thy companions be thee known,” Greer flung back as he left. Bill Scorby balefully regarded the source of the disagreement as he approached the counter. Jacob Finestone was a good-looking young man of tall thin stature with dark glowing eyes. His skin was pale, contrasting with the dark brown of his curly beard. He introduced himself and asked for Mr. Bowen. “There’s none here to talk to thee, Mr. Finestone.” Bill glared down at his work. It was going too slowly. Taking a firm grip on the graver, he executed a powerful stroke. The graver slipped and scored a deep gash up Scorby’s left wrist. The graver fell on the counter as blood welled and dripped copiously over the tool. Scorby held his arm over the counter as if trying to prevent any of his precious ichor falling to the floor. He started to shake uncontrollably. He half leaned on the counter, his eyes rolling back in his head. Jacob Finestone dodged around the end of the counter and caught Scorby as he slipped into a faint. “Hola! Shop!” he yelled. “Help me!” He half dragged the injured man through to the atelier, helped by Ned who came running. “Lordy! What ’appened to ’im?” gasped the boy as he took part of the weight. Together, they put Scorby into a chair. He was beginning to revive, but he was still shaking badly. He looked in horror at the blood welling from his wrist. “Have you cloths?” Jacob asked the apprentice quickly. Ned looked around anxiously. “I’ll look in the washhouse.” He dashed out of the back door, returning in a moment with a linen towel, which Jacob wrapped around the counterman’s wrist. “This is a bad cut. Boy, do you know of a surgeon?” “There is a barber the other end of the mews,” answered the lad. “Fetch him. Run!” He called up the stairs again for assistance. The boy disappeared out the door. “You will be all right, Mr. Scorby. We will have the blood staunched soon. How could this happen?” “Just an accident,” gasped Scorby. “A stupid—” He started to reel in the chair and would have pitched forward, if Jacob had not supported him. There was a clangour of the bell out in the shop. Jacob ignored it. His hands were full. The blood was seeping through the linen cloth. He tried to fold it round more tightly and held it fast, ignoring the blood as it stained his gabardine. There were at least two persons out in the shop, for a voice carrying on in conversational tones was clearly audible. The voice sounded quite autocratic and was making rather a definite point. There was a change of tone, possibly because of the customer’s discovery of the bloody graver. Jacob had no attention to devote to them. It was not his place to look after the shop, and his hands were fully occupied. After a while, the voice ceased, suggesting that the customers had given up waiting and left the shop. A noise at the back door brought Jacob’s attention in that direction. A quite young man of medium stature appeared in the doorway. He appeared slightly flushed from running and carried a leather bag, which he immediately opened to display his instruments. He immediately set to work to stop the bleeding and stitch up the wound. He sent Ned, who had followed a few steps behind him, to fetch water from the pump. He spoke in a calm voice to Scorby, then saying sotto voce to Jacob, “I’ve seen this before. Some people cannot abide the sight of their own blood.” The barber-surgeon continued calmly about stitching up the wound. At last, as he washed blood from his hands with fresh water, he said, “You’ll be all right, Mr. Scorby, as soon as this is bandaged all right and tight. A neat job, if I may say it of my own work.” A loud exclamation from the direction of the shop startled them all. Jacob looked round. “I had forgotten. There were customers in the shop. I thought they had left.” Michael appeared in the aperture. His face was white. Jacob looked alarmed. “My friend! What happened to you?” “Jacob!” Michael did not seem to take in what his friend was asking. He raised his hands. They were covered in blood. “There is a man lying out there—behind the counter. I think he is dead.” “What man? Who?” The shaky questions were uttered by Bill Scorby who was starting to recover his composure. “I don’t know.” Michael was blind to the scene of carnage in the atelier. “I turned him over. I have never seen him before. The mushroom graver is sticking out of his chest.”