“Indeed, but we do,” said his father, coming up. “Why a handful of sweet-stuff will make friends with a Boer, when everything else fails. Here, put this in the fore box. Perhaps, when I bring this out you’ll be glad to get at the sweet-stuff.”
“What is it, father?” said Dick.
Mr Rogers opened the little deal case and turned it out, to begin packing it again.
“Here’s a bottle of chloroform, and another of castor oil; two bottles of chlorodyne; a pound of Epsom salts; four large boxes of pills; a roll of sticking-plaster; a pot of zinc ointment; and a bottle of quinine and one of rhubarb and magnesia.”
Jack’s countenance was a study. For as his father carefully repacked the little box the lad’s face grew into a hideous grimace. He waited till Mr Rogers had finished his enumeration, and then clapping his handkerchief over his mouth, he uttered a loud “Ugh!” and ran and stood a few yards away.
“I shan’t go,” he cried.
“Why not?” said Mr Rogers, smiling.
“Why the waggon will smell, of nothing but physic. What’s the good of taking it, father?”
“The good? Well, my boy, there’s nothing like being prepared; and we are going far away from doctors, if we wanted their help. We may none of us be unwell, but it is quite likely that we may, either of us, get a touch of fever. Besides, we might meet with an accident; and for my part, as I have a little knowledge of medicine and surgery, I know nothing more painful than to find people sick and to be unable to give them the remedy that would make them well. We shall be sure to find some sick people amongst the natives, and they have a wonderful appreciation of the white man’s medicine.”
“Well, look here,” said Jack, “if you’ll shut the box up very tightly, I’ll consent to come.”