“Oh, I don't care,” said the doctor.
“Let us have a Monarch, please,” said Mary. Monarch was a prettier name than Cyclone, and besides there was no sense in giving so violent a name to so peaceful a thing as a watermelon. So the Monarch was brought and deposited in the back of the buggy.
The doctor opened his case. “Take your choice.”
“What do you call this kind?”
“I call that kind Little Devils.”
“How many of 'em would a feller dare take at once?”
“Well, I wouldn't take more than three unless you have a lawyer handy to make your will.”
“Why, will they hurt me?”
“They'll bring the answer if you take enough of 'em.”
The man eyed the pills dubiously,—“I believe I'll let that kind alone. What kind is this?”