“I wish you'd enter one of the learned professions, Solomon—have you ever thought of medicine?” he inquired. Mr. Mahaffy laughed. “But why not, Solomon? There is nothing like a degree or a title—that always stamps a man, gives him standing—”
“What do I know about the human system?”
“I should certainly hope you know as much as the average doctor knows. We could locate in one of these new towns where they have the river on one side and the canal on the other, and where everybody has the ague—”
“What do I know about medicine?” inquired Mahaffy.
“As much as Aesculapius, no doubt—even he had to make a beginning. The torch of science wasn't lit in a day—you must be willing to wait; but you've got a good sick-room manner. Have you ever thought of opening an undertaker's shop? If you couldn't cure them you might bury them.”
A certain hot afternoon brought them into the shaded main street of a straggling village. Near the door of the principal building, a frame tavern, a man was seated, with his feet on the horse-rack. There was no other sign of human occupancy.
“How do you do, sir?” said the judge, halting before this solitary individual whom he conjectured to be the 'landlord. The man nodded, thrusting his thumbs into the armholes of his vest. “What's the name of this bustling metropolis?” continued the judge, cocking his head on one side.
As he spoke, Bruce Carrington appeared in the tavern door; pausing there, he glanced curiously at the shabby wayfarers.
“This is Raleigh, in Shelby County, Tennessee, one of the states of the Union of which, no doubt, you've heard rumor in your wanderings,” said the landlord.
“Are you the voice from the tomb?” inquired the judge, in a tone of playful sarcasm.