“An Irish labourer, more than half-tipsy, came in one evening and asked whether we had such a thing as was called ‘A poor man’s plaister’. ‘By the powers, it will be a poor man’s plaister when it belongs to me; but they tell me that it is a sure and sartain cure for the thumbago, as they call it, which I’ve at the small of my back, and which is a hinder to my mounting up the ladder; so as it’s Saturday night, and I’ve just got the money, I’ll buy the plaister first, and then try what a little whisky inside will do. The devil is in’t if it won’t be driven out of me between the two.’
“We had not that plaister in the shop, but we had blister plaisters, and Timothy, handing one to me, I proffered it to him. ‘And what may you be after asking for the same?’ inquired he.
“The blisters were sold at a shilling each, when spread on paper, so I asked him eighteen-pence, that we might pocket the extra sixpence.
“‘By the powers, one would think that you had made a mistake, and handed me the rich man’s plaister instead of the poor one’s. It’s less whisky I’ll have to drink, any how; but here’s the money, and the top of the morning to ye, seeing as how it’s jist getting late.’
“Timothy and I laughed as we divided the sixpence. It appeared that after taking his allowance of whisky the poor fellow fixed the plaister on his back when he went to bed, and the next morning found himself in a condition not to be envied. It was a week before we saw him again, and, much to the horror of Timothy and myself, he walked into the shop when Mr. Brookes was employed behind the counter. Timothy perceived him before he saw us, and pulling me behind the large mortar, we contrived to make our escape into the back parlour, the door of which we held ajar to hear what would take place.
“‘Murder and turf!’ cried the man, ‘but that was the devil’s own plaister you gave me here for my back, and it left me as raw as a turnip, taking every bit of my skin off me entirely, forbye my lying in bed for a whole week and losing my day’s work.’
“‘I really do not recollect supplying you with a plaister, my good man,’ replied Mr. Brookes.
“‘Then by the piper that played before Moses, if you don’t recollect it, I’ve an idea that I shall never forget it. Sure enough, it cured me, but wasn’t I quite kilt before I was cured?’
“‘It must have been some other shop,’ observed Mr. Brookes. ‘You have made a mistake.’
“‘Devil a bit of a mistake, except in selling me the plaister. Didn’t I get it of a lad in this same shop?’