“Come,” said Mr. Winkle, as the boy retired, “things are not quite so bad as you would have me believe, either. There is some medicine to be sent out.”
Mr. Bob Sawyer peeped out the shop to see that no stranger was within hearing, and leaning forward to Mr. Winkle, said, in a low tone:
“He leaves it all at the wrong houses.”
Mr. Winkle looked perplexed, and Bob Sawyer and his friend laughed.
“You’ve been stopping to over all the posts in Bristol”
“Don’t you see?” said Bob. “He goes up to a house, rings the area bell, pokes a packet of medicine without a direction into the servant’s hand, and walks off. Servant takes it into the dining-parlour; master open it, and reads the label: ‘Draught to be taken at bed-time—pills as before—lotion as usual—the powder. From Sawyer’s, late Nockemorf’s. Physicians’ prescriptions carefully prepared,’ and all the rest of it. Shows it to his wife—she reads the label; it goes down to the servants—they read the label. Next day, boy calls: ‘Very sorry—his mistake—immense business—great many parcels to deliver—Mr. Sawyer’s compliments—late Nockemorf.’ The name gets known, and that’s the thing, my boy, in the medical way. Bless your heart, old fellow, it’s better than all the advertising in the world. We have got one four-ounce bottle that’s been to half the houses in Bristol, and hasn’t done yet.”
“Dear me, I see,” observed Mr. Winkle; “what an excellent plan!”