“He was a—a—miserable scoundrel!” the chemist declared, trying to suit his language to this tall, innocent child.
Betty was calling to mind Dr. Vandegrift’s assertions concerning the jealousy of the medical profession and the consequent perils of his situation.
“I am sorry he should seem so,” she remarked, “but he—he knew his business? He made—marvelous cures?”
“Marvelous humbug!” the chemist exclaimed, the more forcibly because he felt so strongly the simple charm of the girl. “Why, my dear child, that man was a horse jockey. He had education enough to talk big, but not the slightest knowledge of medicine. He worked at an eye hospital once, scrubbing floors and doing heavy work and that’s the way he picked up enough medical words to write his advertisements and find his patients. His electric battery was a wooden chest filled with wet sawdust and his Galvano Eye-Cup—so much wood! But he raked in the cash—take it from me.”
The girl was so manifestly shocked and stunned that he fetched a chair quickly. But she did not move—only thanked him in a dazed manner and stared straight before her. He spoke to a youth among the loafers.
“Look here, Dan. Step round to the Record office and get a copy of the paper that showed up the eye-doctor, two—three weeks back. Get two if they have ’em.”
When the boy returned, Betty was able to thank the chemist politely and to offer to pay for the papers. He waved his hands.
“You’re welcome to ’em, miss,” he assured her. “The extry copy is in case you know anyone else that got stung. I reckon you’re from Paulding?”
“South Paulding.”
“It’s amusing reading, that account is, for those that aren’t mourners,” he observed. “I hope you didn’t lose much by the scamp, miss?”