"Nothing of the sort!" said Waddles, bristling instantly; "and besides, I don't know what you mean. Bish, when you cut loose that belly barytone of yours you always remind me of an empty barrel rolling down the cellar stairs—a lot of noise, but you never spill anything worth mopping up. Come again with that foreign stuff."
"Similia similibus curantur," repeated the Bish. "That's Latin."
Waddles shook his head.
"In this case," said he, "your word will have to be sufficient. While you were hog-wrastling Cæsar's Commentaries I was down in the Indian Territory mastering the art of driving eight mules with a jerk line. I learned to swear some in Choctaw and Cherokee, but that was as far as I got. Break that Latin up into little ones. Slip it to me in plain unvarnished United States."
"Well, then," said the Bish, rolling a solemn eye in my direction, "that's the same as saying that the hair of the dog cures the bite."
"The hair of the dog," repeated Waddles, wrinkling his brow. "The hair—of—the—dog.... H'm-m."
"Oh, it's deep stuff," said the Bish. "Take a good long breath and dive for it."
"The only time I ever heard that hair-of-the-dog thing mentioned," said Waddles, "was the morning after the night before. Peacock doesn't drink."
The Bish made use of a very unorthodox expletive.
"Something ailed your friend Peacock," said he, "and something cured him. Think it over."