BENJAMIN McNEIL MURDOCK
Ben's eyes had closed.
"Bring me a chair here, Mirey." His wife brought the chair. "There! Sit down on that. You're dog-tired."
Ben sank weakly into the seat.
"Now," he said, "first we'll cure them eyes." And, pretending to pour some of his remedy into the palm of his hand, he began to stroke the boy into a mesmeric sleep. "This boy," he kept saying, "is worn out with pain. It's passin'. It's passin'. Just like he was fallin' asleep an' fergettin' it. That's it. Just like you was fallin' asleep, sonny. Fallin' asleep."
When he saw from Ben's regular breathing that he was unconscious he announced, "We'll now cure the toothache." And he proceeded to rub Ben's swollen cheek very gently with an application of the Indian Herb Remedy. "The results," he said, "is almost instantous. The sufferin' begins to stop. Like you'd slep' it off. Feelin' better?"
He bent down. Ben's lips moved inaudibly.
"Yes. He says he's feelin' better."
His wife was standing beside him, holding the bottle of medicine, watching anxiously, alarmed because the boy had "gone under" so quickly. She poured out a spoonful of the remedy and offered it to her husband.
"All right, now," he said. "This 'll do the trick. This '11 fix it. Open yer mouth."
Ben opened it, with his eyes shut.
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