The Climate would seem to be helping his Appetite.
Within 24 Hours, however, he would be craving only some cold Carbonic and a few Kind Words.
Florida seemed to enervate him. California was too unsettled. Even in the Mountains, his Heart always bothered him after a Hearty Meal. And the Piney Woods only made him Pine more than ever.
Time and again he would curl up in the palatial Drawing-Room at one end of the Sleeper and dream that six Life-Long Friends in deep Black were whispering among the Floral Tributes and putting on Cotton Gloves.
While searching for the Fountain of Youth he would bump into Sympathetic Souls of the kind who infest Observation Cars and hold down Rocking-Chairs in front of Wooden Hotels. These Fellow Voyagers in the realm of Hypochondria would give him various Capsules and Tablets, supposed to be good for whatever Ailed one at the Time. So eager was he to regain his full vigor and be able to eat and drink everything forbidden by the Doctors, he would fall for every kind of Dope made from Coal Tar.
Even if he had worn Blinders he could not have walked past an
Apothecary Shop.
As he moved about the produced a muffled Castanet Effect, for he had a little box of Medicated Bullets in every Pocket.
Yet he was not in Condition.
His Complexion was a Bird's-Eye Maple, and he looked like the
Superintendent of a prosperous Morgue.
One Summer Day, when he was only about three jumps ahead of a
Cataleptic Convulsion, he had to get on the Cars and take a long ride
to inspect some Copper Mines which helped to fatten his impotent
Income. The train was bowling through a placid Dairy Region in the
Commonwealth regulated by Mr. La Follette.