“Give me a stone of it.”
“A stone of my ointment! Well! you are the wisest man I have come across this year or two. You shall have it, sir.”
George rode home with his purchase.
Abner turned up his nose at it, and was inclined to laugh at George's fears. But George said to himself, “I have Susan to think of as well as myself. Besides,” said he a little bitterly, “I haven't a grain of luck. If I am to do any good I must be twice as prudent and thrice as industrious as my neighbors or I shall fall behind them. Now, Abner, we'll shear them close.”
“Shear them! Why it is not two months since they were all sheared.”
“And then we will rub a little of this ointment into them.”
“What! before we see any sign of the scab among them? I wouldn't do that if they were mine.”
“No more would I if they were yours,” replied George almost fiercely. “But they are not yours, Will Abner. They are unlucky George's.”
During the next three days four hundred sheep were clipped and anointed. Jacky helped clip, but he would not wear gloves, and George would not let him handle the ointment without them, suspecting mercury.
At last George yielded to Abner's remonstrances, and left off shearing and anointing.