A Bad Headache and a Bitter Dose—A Poem—The Singing Cherubs—A Sign of Fair Weather—Promised Feasting—Eating Oneself into Premature Old Age, and Starving into a Ripe Old Age—A Delicate Question—A Business Meeting—Drawing up Resolutions to Exonerate the Captain—The Eads and Jetties—An Enjoyable Toilet—A Hook Apiece—The Penalty of Early Rising—A Cold Day—Discovery of the Preston—Unfavorable Comparison—New Orleans and Oysters—Absinthe—A Fraudulent Automobile Ride—Advice to Young Men—A Corrected Advertisement—The French Quarter and Legendary New Orleans
The next morning was Monday, our last day on the “ocean wave” and “rolling deep,” with all its poetry and pantomime. We were due at New Orleans Tuesday forenoon and were happy in anticipation of soon being back on prosaic land again.
When I awoke I knew that the “norther” was weakening, for the motion of the boat was quite consistent with an elaborate toilet, and produced no uncomfortable sensations. In fact, the cool, invigorating United States air made all of us feel lively and disposed us to object to coffee and jam sandwiches as a substitute for something to eat.
Everybody was well and on deck except Doctor Waite, who had a headache. When I had about completed my elaborate toilet (which consisted not of any extra finery, but rather of an elaboration and deliberation in the adjustment of the same old weather-worn and salted-down garments), I opened my stateroom door just in time to be in at the finish of an interesting sick headache. Doctor Waite had sent for Doctor Hughes, one of those prescribing neurologists who place their confidence in medicine rather than in their Maker, who pursue their cases to death, and dose them until they die. He wore a gentle, white-haired, sugar-cure expression on his face, and suggested an overflowing fountain of professional kindness in the tones of his voice. But he was giving her one of those old-fashioned bitter draughts such as only neurologists know how to compound—not harmful but worse, and which depend largely upon their taste to cure the patient of all further desire for diseases or drugs. She, womanlike, swallowed the dose as if it had been the gospel. It was hardly down, however, before it returned as if from a volcano, and threatening to carry away the crown of her head. She was frightened at the suddenness and intensity of the paroxysm and disgusted by the terrible taste, or she would have noticed the immediate relief that followed. In her sudden fright she exclaimed:
“Oh, Doctor, you’ve killed me; you’ve killed me. Ugh! This is terrible.”
“Madam!” said Doctor Hughes in his soft and gentle way, “you misjudge me. I may be a killing man but I’m not a killing doctor. Ahem!”
Doctor Waite had to laugh at him; and her headache passed off. She expressed a determination, however, not to have another until she was safe at home.
At the breakfast table one of the doctors, whose identity I will not betray, read the following poem:
Low she lay with aching head,
Mingling moan with smothered sigh.