“Who do you think it oughta be?” ast Billy.
“Strikes me you’ wife’s little sister is the pick.”
“Cupid,” says Billy, lookin’ anxious like, “don’t you git you’self too much interested in Macie Sewell. You know how the ole man feels towards you. And what can I do? He ain’t any too friendly with me yet? So be keerful.”
“Now, Doc,” I goes on, “don’t you go to worryin’ about me. Just you help by prescribin’ that medicine.”
“To folks that don’t need none?” ast Billy. “Aw, I don’t like to.” (Billy’s awful white, Billy is.) “It won’t do ’em no good.”
“Wal,” I says, “it won’t do ’em no harm.”
Billy said he’d see.
“You could let it out that somebody in town’s been cured by the stuff,” I suggests.
“Only make them railroad fellers buy more.”
“That’s so. Wal, I guess the best thing fer me to do is to hunt up people with a misery and tell ’em they’d better buy–and vote my way.”