“Say,” he cried, “’bout them physics.”
Minky turned and gazed affectionately at the shelf. It was the pride of his store. He always kept it well dusted and dressed. The delicate wrappings and fancy labels always had a strong fascination for him. Then there were the curative possibilities of the contents of the inviting packages as set forth by the insistent “drummer” who sold them to him.
“An elegant stock,” he murmured. “Sort of concentrated health.” Then he glanced round anxiously. “Your hosses ain’t ailin’?” he inquired. “I got most everything fer hosses. Ther’s embrocation, hoss iles, every sort of lin’ments. Hoss balls? Linseed?”
The gambler shook his head.
“You ain’t got physic fer men-folk?” he inquired.
“I sure have. But––but you ain’t sick?” Minky eyed his friend narrowly.
Bill’s mouth twisted wryly.
“I ain’t jest sick,” he replied. “But,” he added hopefully, “you can’t never be sure.”
Minky nodded.
“That’s so. I’d say you don’t look a heap sick, though.”