"John! you shall have some extra fine brandy, nicely thinned with
pepper-juice." I poured half an inch of brandy into a tin cup, then
added half an inch of "pain-killer."
"Here, take this, and if you don't feel it, it means your insides
are dead, and you may as well order your coffin."
John took it at a gulp. His insides were not dead; but I might have
been, had I been one of his boatmen.
He doubled up, rolled around, and danced for five minutes. He did
not squeal - John never squeals - but he suffered some, and an hour
later announced that he was about cured.
Next day he came to say he was all right, and would soon again be
as good as half a dozen men.
At this same camp in Grand Rapids another cure on a much larger
scale was added to my list. An Indian had "the bones of his foot
broken," crushed by a heavy weight, and was badly crippled. He
came leaning on a friend's shoulder. His foot was blackened and much
swollen, but I soon satisfied myself that no bones were broken,
because he could wriggle all the toes and move the foot in any
direction.
"You'll be better in three days and all right in a week," I said,
with calm assurance.
