“‘Liked to forgot my money,” he explained; “laid it on the dresser last night.”
The burglar caught him by the right sleeve.
“Come on,” he said bluffly. “I ask you. Leave it alone. I’ve got the price. Ever try witch hazel and oil of wintergreen?”
IX.
AT ARMS WITH MORPHEUS
I never could quite understand how Tom Hopkins came to make that blunder, for he had been through a whole term at a medical college—before he inherited his aunt’s fortune—and had been considered strong in therapeutics.
We had been making a call together that evening, and afterward Tom ran up to my rooms for a pipe and a chat before going on to his own luxurious apartments. I had stepped into the other room for a moment when I heard Tom sing out:
“Oh, Billy, I’m going to take about four grains of quinine, if you don’t mind— I’m feeling all blue and shivery. Guess I’m taking cold.”
“All right,” I called back. “The bottle is on the second shelf. Take it in a spoonful of that elixir of eucalyptus. It knocks the bitter out.”
After I came back we sat by the fire and got our briars going. In about eight minutes Tom sank back into a gentle collapse.
I went straight to the medicine cabinet and looked.