“So you’ve discovered that, too?”
“What?”
“The narcotics. I had to try something. I haven’t had three continuous hours of sleep since—not for five months, anyway.”
“Humph!” The doctor stumbled on a stone and stopped to kick it out of the way. “That’ll lead you on the same road with old Henry Jersey, down in Featherbed Lane.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“Well, there’s some divergence of opinion, but his neighbors call him bughouse, if you know what that is.”
“Crazy?”
“Pretty near it. He took drugs, too, for a while.”
“I’ve only taken small doses, enough to get a little sleep. I had to have it. Perhaps”—he laughed unsteadily—“perhaps you can tell me what I’ve taken?”
“Oh, it might be anything,” the doctor replied carelessly; “but I should call it chloral.”