Doctor—Why did Jim strike you?
Peter—Well, Doctor, he wanted some rum on credit, and because I hesitated, and finally gave him some very poor rum (rather freely adulterated), to get rid of him, he got angry, and threw the rum and water in my face, and then most cruelly beat me.
Doctor—Mr. Cooper, why don’t you stop selling rum, and especially to such low characters as nigger Jim?
Peter—O, I can’t stop selling rum, as I make more profit on that than any thing else. In fact, it is nearly all profit, if properly and judiciously adulterated.
Doctor—But don’t you impoverish and degrade and render vicious all to whom you sell your poisonous alcohol, and expose their wives and children to all the horrors of poverty, and the brutal ferocity and insanity of a drunken father?
Peter—O, I don’t know any thing about all that. All I know, as a business man, is, that I get a mighty large profit on my rum, and if my customers get drunk, and abuse and starve their families, and commit theft or murder, that is their fault, and I shall not be responsible for it here, nor hereafter.
Doctor—I fear you view this matter altogether in the light of selfishness.
Peter (terribly cornered)—Doctor, no more of this. I have come to have you examine and dress my wounds, and if you can’t do it, without a tedious homily on temperance, I will go to the other Apothecary, down the Bowery, who has long been your rival, and would like the job mighty well. (This was a clincher, and smashed the Doctor’s impregnable position.)
Doctor—That is all true, Mr. Cooper, and I will discharge my painful duty. Here, Samuel, bring me some warm water. (Washes Peter’s bloody nose and dark eyes, and dresses them. He then feels of his bruised ribs, and finds them unbroken, though very sore and inflamed.)
Peter—Doctor, what is your charge?