“Oh, I’m so sick. I got sich cramps. Bin sick all night,” said Chew, as he entered the hospital, with one hand clutching a portion of his garments covering the part of his anatomy where cramps are supposed to locate, and the other pressed against his forehead.
“I’ll give you a dose of castor oil,” said the hospital steward.
“Oh,” said Chew, “I kaint take castoh oil. Nevah could take it.”
“I’ll fix it up so you won’t taste it.”
“It’s no use, I know. You’ll hav’ter give me somethin’ else.”
The steward poured a little whiskey in the bottom of a glass; then poured in the oil, which was quite stiff, and after that put whiskey on top. Chew took the glass and with a quick toss gulped down the whiskey before the oil had fairly started to flow, and handed the glass back, saying: “Take it quick. I’m afeerd I’ll throw it up”—at the same time making such grimaces that one would think he really had swallowed a nauseous dose.
“You haven’t taken any of the oil,” said the steward. “Here; drink it down.”
“Oh, I got a big mouthful, an’ I’m pow’ful sick.”
“I’ll put some more whiskey on top. Drink it quick and you won’t taste it.”
“I did drink it jis’ ez quick ez I could. I’ll try, but I know it won’t stay down.”