“How be I to take ’m? did she tell ’e?”
“No: she didn’t, but she meant all, I suppose, unless it’s written inside.”
This was a large order, as the parcel contained castor oil, a black draught, and six blue pills.
“And which be I to take fust? She must ha’ told ’e that.”
Again Ronald was at fault.
“Much, I allow, as the gentry do their vittles—solids fust, and drinks atterwards.”
The prescriptions, whatever the order observed in their administration, answered to perfection, and Ronald’s fame was greatly magnified by the result. His drugs were in high request everywhere, and were reported to be “powerfully fine.”
One day his wife said to him, “Ronald, would you like to hear a project I have in hand for reclaiming a pet drunkard?”
“Very much: what is it?”
“I shall give him a dog.”