the bar with a deprecatory and
automatic movement. They took their glasses, clinked them, nodded to
their entertainer, muttered incoherent toasts and drank his health. The
delighted landlord, feeling it incumbent upon him to break the silence,
offered the friendly observation: "S-s-see you s-s-stutter. S-s-stutter a
little m-m-my own self."
"Shake!" responded the doctor, who was in too complacent a mood to
take offence, and the worthies grasped hands.
"Don't know any w-w-way to s-s-stop it, do you?" asked the landlord.
"No, I d-d-don't; t-t-tried everything. Even my 'universal p-p-panacea'
won't do it, and what that can't do can't be d-d-done. Incurable
d-d-disease. Get along all right when I go slow like this; but when I
open the throttle, get all b-b-balled up. Bad thing for my business. Give
any man a thousand d-d-dollars that'll cure me," the quack replied,
slapping his trousers pocket as if there were millions in it.
"Co-co-couldn't go q-q-quite as high as that; but wouldn't mind a
hu-hu-hundred," responded the landlord cordially.
"Ever hear the story about the landlord's troubles in the Mexican war?"
asked one of the by-standers turning to the quack.
"Tell it," he responded laconically.
Several members of the group looked at each other and exchanged
significant winks as the narrator began his tale.
"They made him sergeant of a company, but had to reduce him to the
ranks, because when he was drilling the boys one day they all marched
into the river and got drowned before he could say h-h-halt."
The doctor laughed and the others joined him out of courtesy, for the
story was worn threadbare in the bar-room.
"Tell about his going on picket duty," suggested some one.
"Captain ordered him out on the line," said the first speaker, "and he
refused. 'T-t-tain't no use,' says he.
"'Why not?' says the captain.
"'C-c-cause,' says he, 'if some d-d-dirty Mexican g-g-greaser should
c-c-come along, he'd run me through the g-g-gizzard before I could ask
him for the c-c-countersign.'"
More tipsy laughter followed.
"Tell you what it is, b-b-boys," said the quack, growing communicative
under the influence of the liquor and the fellowship, "if it wasn't for this
b-b-blankety-blanketed impediment in my s-s-speech, I wouldn't need
to work more'n about another y-y-year!"
"How's that?" asked someone in the crowd.
"C-c-cause if I could talk as well as I c-c-can think, I could make a
fortune 'side of which old John Jacob Astor's would look like a
p-p-penny savings b-b-bank!"
"You could?"
"You bet your sweet life I c-c-could. And I'm just keeping my eyes
open for some young f-f-fellow to help me. For 'f I can find a man that
can do the t-talking (I mean real talk, you know; talk a crowd blind as
b-b-bats), I've got something better'n a California g-g-gold mine."
"Better get Dave Corson," said the village wag from the rear of the
crowd, and up went a wild shout of laughter.
"Who's D-D-Dave Corson?" asked the doctor.
"Quaker preacher. Young feller 'bout twenty years old."
"Can he t-t-talk?"
"Talk! He kin talk a mule into a trottin' hoss in less'n three minutes."
"He's my man!" exclaimed the doctor, at which the crowd laughed
again.
"What the d-d-deuce are you laughing at?" he asked, turning upon them
savagely, his loud voice and threatening manner frightening those who
stood nearest, so that they instinctively stepped back a pace or two.
"No offence, Doc," said one of them; "but you couldn't get him."
"Couldn't get him! Why couldn't I g-g-get him?"
"He's pious."
"Pious! What do I care?"
"Well, these here pious Quakers are stiff in their notions. But you kin
jedge fer yourself 'bout his talkin', fer there's goin' ter be an appinted
Quaker meetin' to-morrow night, and he'll speak. You kin go an' listen,
if you want to."
"I'll be there, boys, and d-d-don't you forget it. I'll hook him! Never saw
anything I couldn't buy if I had a little of the p-p-proper stuff about me.
Drink to my l-l-luck, boys, and watch me!"
The landlord filled their glasses once more, and low gurglings,
smothered swallows, and loud smacking of lips filled the interim of
interrupted conversation.
"I say, Doc, that daughter of yours knows her biz when it comes to
telling fortunes," ventured a young dandy, whose head had been turned
by Pepeeta's beauty.
"D-d-daughter!" snapped the quack, turning sharply upon him; "she's
not my daughter, she's my wife!"
"Wife! Gosh! You don't say?" exclaimed the crestfallen dandy.
"Yes, wife! And I'll j-j-just warn any of you young f-f-fellers that if I
catch you trying to p-p-plow with my heifer, you'll be food for
buzzards before sun-up!"
He swept his eyes savagely round the circle as he spoke, and the
subject dropped.
The conversation turned into other channels, and flowed in a maudlin,
sluggish manner far into
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