Receiving no answer to his thirsty appeal he arose and said, "This is a heluva club—rottenest service in this club—s'limit, that's what it is, s'limit!" Then he hiccoughed his weary way out of the room and I haven't seen him since.
An hour later Uncle Louis Miffendale had looked me over and concluded I had galloping asthma, compressed tonsilitis, chillblainous croup, and incipient measles. He insisted that I take three grains of quinine, two grains of asperine, rub the back of my neck with benzine, soak my ankles in kerosene, then a little phenacetine, and a hot whiskey toddy every half hour before meals.
If I found it hard to take the toddy he volunteered to run in every half hour and help me.
Then his wife, Aunt Jessica, blew in with a decoction she called catnip tea. She brought it all the way from the Bronx in a thermos bottle, so I had to drink it or lose a perfectly respectable old aunt.
It tasted like a linoleum cocktail—weouw!
During the rest of the day every friend and relative I have in the world rushed in, suggested a sure cure, and then rushed out again.
Peaches tried them all on me and I felt like the inside of a medicine chest.
To make matters worse I drank some dogberry cordial and it chased the catnip tea all over my concourse.