Charlie rushed into the shop for more brandy and returned in a moment.
Gideon Prawle gulped it down at a draught, and it brought him instant relief.
“That’s good stuff, and it warms me innards nicely,” he said, smacking his lips with a sigh of satisfaction.
“It’s the best in Sackville,” said Charlie. “It’s none of your common saloon firewater. No, sir; that is kept exclusively for the sick.”
“I believe you,” said the Westerner. “Now, if I might ask you another favor, it would be in the shape of something to eat. I’m most famished. Ain’t had a mouthful since yesterday afternoon.”
“Sure thing,” replied Charlie, with alacrity. “I ought to have thought of that myself. Meyer,” he called, stepping to the surgery door.
The German boy poked his head into the room in fear and trepidation.
“Vat haf you done mit der corpse?” he asked, seeing the slab vacant.
Then, as his eyes roved to the chair, his hair almost stood on end with fright.
“Mein Gott! Vot is dot?”