“Oh, zur,” groaned Martha, “don’t be starin’ like that! Write, zur! ’Twas all in the paper the prospector left last summer. Pine’s Prompt Pain Exterminator. Cures boils, rheumatism, pains in the back an’ chest, sore throat, an’ all they things, an’ warts on the hands by a simple application with brown paper. We wants it for the rheumatiz, zur. Oh, zur——”
“None genuine without the label,” Jimmie put in, in an excited rattle. “Money refunded if no cure. Get a bottle with the label.”
The doctor laughed—laughed aloud, and laughed again. “By Jove!” he roared, “you’ll get it. It’s odd, but—ha, ha!—by Jove, he has it in stock!”
The laughter and repeated assurance seemed vastly to encourage Jimmie and Martha—the doctor wrote like mad while he talked—but not little Sammy. All that he lisped, all that he shouted, all that he screamed, had gone unheeded. As though unable to put up with the neglect any longer, he limped over the floor to Martha, and tugged her sleeve, and pulled at Jimmie’s coat-tail, and jogged the doctor’s arm, until, at last, he attracted a measure of attention. Notwithstanding his mother’s protests—notwithstanding her giggles and waving hands—notwithstanding that she blushed as red as ink (until, as I perceived, her freckles were all lost to sight)—notwithstanding that she threw her apron over her head and rushed headlong from the room, to the imminent danger of the door-posts—little Sammy insisted that his mother’s gift should be named in the letter of request.
“Quick!” cried the doctor. “What is it? We’ve but half a minute left.”
Sammy began to stutter.
“Make haste, b’y!” cried Jimmie.
“One—bottle—of—the—Magic—Egyptian—Beautifier,” said Sammy, quite distinctly for the first time in his life.
The doctor looked blank; but he doggedly nodded his head, nevertheless, and wrote it down; and off went the letter at precisely 10:47.45, as the doctor said.