Equipped With A
"Pill-Kit," An Abundance Of Blisters And Bandages And Some "Potent
Purgatives," I Had Prepared Myself To Render First And Last Aid To
The Hurt In My Own Party.
In taking instructions from our family
physician, I had learned the value of a profound air of great
gravity, a noble reticence, and a total absence of doubt, when I
did speak.
I compressed his creed into a single phrase: "In case of
doubt, look wise and work on his 'bowels.'" This simple equipment
soon gave me a surprisingly high standing among the men. I was
a medicine man of repute, and soon had a larger practice than I
desired, as it was entirely gratuitous.
The various boatmen, Indians and half-breeds, came with their
troubles, and, thanks chiefly to their faith, were cured. But one
day John MacDonald, the chief pilot and a mighty man on the river,
came to my tent on Grand Island. John complained that he couldn't
hold anything on his stomach; he was a total peristaltic wreck indeed
(my words; his were more simple and more vivid, but less sonorous
and professional). He said he had been going down hill for two
weeks, and was so bad now that he was "no better than a couple of
ordinary men."
"Exactly so," I said. "Now you take these pills and you'll be all
right in the morning." Next morning John was back, and complained
that my pills had no effect; he wanted to feel something take hold
of him.
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