Chapter Thirteen.
The Black Tiger Again.
Abe suffered for several days from an attack of rheumatism in his shoulder, brought on by his immersion in the flood waters, and he applied himself steadily to the manufacture of a wonderful lotion, in which camphorated oil was the main stock, with a dash of turpentine, a strong trace of eucalyptus, and a few drops of the powerful euphorbia juice, together with extracts from sundry potent herbs. When I visited him this concoction was brewing in a pot, the steam from which filled the house with an extremely pungent smell.
“There,” said he, holding up a wooden ladle full of the mixture, “jes’ take a sniff of that. That’s the sort to sift right through you, and yank out rheumatics from the knuckle joints.”
“It certainly is strong.”
“Yes, sonny; but it lacks one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Jes’ a lump, as big as your fist, of fat from a tiger’s inside.”