The physician's eyes in running along the rows of bottles encountered one labeled "Oleum Tiglii," and paused there. "You need a rest, eh?" he inquired, mechanically.
"If I don't get one I'll wing my way to realms eternal. I ain't been dried off for three months." Gray turned to regard his caller with a speculative stare, his fingers toyed with the bottle. "If it wasn't for this man Linn I'd lay off—I'd go to jail for him. But I can't do anything, with one foot always in the grave."
The doctor's face lightened with determination.
"Tom, you've been sent from heaven!"
"D'you mean I've been sent for, from heaven?" The invalid's red cheeks blanched, into his mournful eyes leaped a look of quick concern. "Say! Am I as sick as all that?"
"This will make you feel better." Gray uncorked the bottle and said, shortly, "Take off your shirt."
"What for?"
"I'm going to rub your chest and arms."
Slater obeyed, with some reluctance, pausing to inquire, doubtfully:
"You ain't stripping me down so you can operate?"