That night the whiskey and quinine held a director's meeting with the germs and then they wound up with a sort of Mardi Gras parade through my system.
I was the goat!
When daylight broke I was a total wreck, and I swore that the next person that said whiskey and quinine to me would get all his.
After breakfast another friend of ours, Jack Gibson, blew in, and after he looked me over his weary eye fell on the decanter.
Then Jack smacked his lips and whispered that the best cure for the grip was a glass of whiskey and quinine every time I felt chills and fever, and he'd be glad to join me.
When loving hands picked Jack up at the bottom of the stairs he was almost insulted, but he quieted down when my wife explained to him that I was suffering not only from the grip but that I had also a slight attack of jiu jitsu.
After weeks of study devoted to the subject I have come to the conclusion that the only way to cure the grip is to stay sick until you get better.
That's what I did!
JOHN HENRY ON COURTING
Are you wise to the fact that everything is changing in this old world of ours, and that since the advent of fuss-wagons even the old-fashioned idea of courtship has been chased to the woods?