“I was thinking—” began Brown.
“What was you thinkin'?”
“I was wondering if some of my 'Stomach Balm' wouldn't help him. It's an old family receipt, handed down from the Indians, I believe. I always have a bottle with me and . . . Still, I wouldn't prescribe, not knowing the disease.”
Mrs. Stover's eyes sparkled. Patent medicines were her hobby.
“Hum!” she said. “'Stomach Balm' sounds good. And he says his trouble is principally stomach. Some of them Indian medicines are mighty powerful. Have you—did you say you had a bottle with you, Mr. Brown?”
The young man went again to the pantry and returned with the bottle he had so recently found there. Now, however, it was two thirds full of a black sticky mixture. Mrs. Stover removed the cork and took an investigating sniff.
“It smells powerful,” she said, hopefully.
“It is. Would you like to taste it?” handing her a tablespoon. He watched as she swallowed a spoonful.
“Ugh! oh!” she gasped; even her long suffering palate rebelled at THAT taste. “It—I should think that OUGHT to help him.”
“I should think so. It may be the very thing he needs. At any rate, it can't hurt him. It's quite harmless.”