“Never heard it,” said Bart; “and I don’t believe it. I’ve eaten lots of oysters in May myself.”
Jiggins shook his head.
“Never do it again,” said he.
“Do you mean to say that it was clams that upset you so?”
“Clams, and clams alone,” said Jiggins. “We owe our lives to Mrs. Pratt. She’s been a mother to us.”
“Why! What do you mean?”
“You see we had a stew. Pat ate them raw, and fell down in horrible agonies. The torments which he suffered were so excruciating that he had to be carried to the house, and went nearly mad with pain. Mrs. Pratt attended him, and as soon as he was easier she took us in hand. We had eaten after Pat, and our pains had not yet begun. Mrs. Pratt got out all her medicines, and tried them on us one after the other.”
“What! not all! not all her medicines!”
“Yes, all!” said Jiggins, in a dismal voice. “I can’t tell you all that we took; but first there was opodeldoc, then ginger, then Crabb’s cordial, then magnesia, then paregoric, then blue pills, then a mustard plaster, after which there was rum and onions, brimstone and molasses—”
“Stop, stop!” cried Bart. “What’s all that? You don’t mean to say that you took all that?”