“But,” inquired the wife, timidly, “is not this an unusual prescription, Dr. S.?” The doctor replied that it was a new remedy, but very efficacious. “You see,” he added, with many a hem and haw, “it will out-herod the blush of the skin, put to shame the fever, which retires in disgust, and so relieves the patient.”
“And won’t he die, if we follow this strange prescription?” asked a friend, while the doctor was proceeding to deal out a large powder.
“No, no; ahem! You do the dyeing, to prevent the dying. Haw, haw!” roared the vulgar old wretch, convulsed by his own pun, and the anticipation of the ludicrous corpse that he expected to see within a few days.
There was no alternative. The prescription must be followed, and the children were sent to the woods to gather the ripe berries. The quack next proceeded to deal out a dose of lobelia and blood-root, which he left on the desk where Dr. B. prepared medicines when in health, giving directions for its administration, and in high glee took his departure. The inspissated juice of the highly-colored berries was applied over the face, arms, and body of the unconscious doctor, the remarkable appearance of whom we leave the reader to imagine.
By mistake, a large dose of camphorated dover’s powders which lay on the table was substituted for the lobelia of Dr. S., which with the warm liquid applied to the skin, checked the fever, and, contrary to the hope and expectation of Dr. S., the following morning found his patient in a fine perspiration, and the neighboring physician arriving, he was soon placed in a condition of safety.
Notwithstanding Dr. S. told some friends of the joke,—for the worst have their friends, you know,—he was known to have prescribed for Dr. B., his sworn enemy; and as the patient was pronounced convalescent, S. received all the credit, and forthwith his services were in great demand. Day and night he rode, till, by the time Dr. B. got out, he was completely exhausted! He became alarmed lest he should take the fever. Such fellows are ever cowards when anything ails their precious selves. He actually became feverish with fear and excitement, and took his bed—and his emetic. He took either an overdose, or not enough, and for hours remained in the greatest distress. Finally, as a dernier resort, his wife sent for Dr. B.! Now came his turn to avenge the insult of the painting by poke-berries, which stain was yet scarcely removed from the skin of the old doctor.
“I’ll give him a dose; I’ll put my mark on him—one that milk and water, or soap, cannot remove. O, I’ll be avenged!” exclaimed Dr. B., as he mounted his gig, and drove to Dr. S.
“O doctor, doctor! I am in fearful distress. Can you help me? Will I die?” whined S., on beholding his opponent.
“No; not such good news. Those born to hang don’t die in their beds. But you are very sick, and must abide my directions.”
“Yes, yes. Thanks, doctor. This blamed lobelia is killing me, though.”