The old man was incredulous and distressed. He had somehow concluded that Warner had really set his heart upon possessing his daughter, his plain, fat little daughter and nothing else, but that, native-like, he had not said so.
In the end Warner accepted, in self-defence, a mangy, evil-smelling cat's skin.
Chlorodyne.
A day or two after Warner had become the unwilling possessor of the mangy skin, which, by the way, he promptly buried as soon as its donor's back was turned, he set out on a three days' journey from his camp to visit a white trader with whom from time to time he transacted business of some kind. He went on foot, accompanied only by a few natives, one of whom carried the box of medicines.
While he was resting during the midday heat, the Headman of the neighbouring village approached him with many signs of deference.
"Good day to you, Great Doctor."
"Good day to you," Warner replied.
"Are you indeed the Great Doctor?"
Warner was bold enough to say he was.
"Will the Great Doctor help me with medicines? My wife, who is very old, suffers from a great sickness. Her arms are now no thicker than a stick. Pain is with her always. She never sleeps. All day long and all the night she lies and moans. She no longer cries out. Will not the Great Doctor kill this sickness? I have told her of you."