“Wot medicine?” asked Poll.
“Stuff they sells in yere. There’s a sort of a doctor keeps this shop, and he has made pints of some powerful stuff, and he sells it off in bottles. It’s warranted to cure colds and brownchitis and pains in the ’ead, and bad legs, and pains of all sorts whatever. Little Jeanie has turned that pettish after the brownchitis that I thought I’d get a bottle to brisk her up a bit. It’s powerful ’ot, strong stuff, and they say, folks as tried it, that it seems to go straight to the vitals, and lifts you up so as you don’t know yourself.”
“And stops pain? Do they say that?” asked Poll.
“Sartin sure. It’s a kind of an ease-all, that’s the right name for it.”
Poll looked into the palm of her hand, which contained the solitary twopence.
“How much do the stuff cost?” she asked.
“You get a big bottle for sixpence. It’s dirt cheap, dirt cheap.”
“You’re sure as it ain’t pizen?”
“Rayther. Didn’t Mary Ann Jones in the court take it, and Peter Samson, and a score more? It’s fine stuff, strengthening and good. What is it, neighbour? You look white. Ain’t you well?”
“I has a bit of a pain, Betsy. A bit of a grip just under my left breast. Oh, it ain’t nothing; but I has a mind to try the medicine as dulls pain. It don’t seem to take you off yer ’ead, like sperits, for instance?”