Mr Cophagus, we don’t cheat him, or steal his property; the other seven-pence is of course our own—being the profits of the profession.”
“But how shall we account for receiving the two-pence?” said Timothy.
“Selling two vials instead of one: they are never reckoned, you know.”
“That will do capitally,” cried Timothy; “and now for halves.” But this could not be managed until Timothy had run out and changed the sixpence; we then each had our three-pence halfpenny, and for once in our lives could say that we had money in our pockets.
Part 1—Chapter III
I perform a wonderful Cure upon Saint John Long’s Principle, having little or no Principle of my own—I begin to puzzle my Head with a Problem, of all others most difficult to solve.
The success of our first attempt encouraged us to proceed; but afraid that I might do some mischief, I asked of Mr Brookes the nature and qualities of the various medicines, as he was mixing the prescriptions, that I might avoid taking any of those which were poisonous. Mr Brookes, pleased with my continual inquiries, gave me all the information I could desire, and thus I gained, not only a great deal of information, but also a great deal of credit with Mr Cophagus, to whom Mr Brookes had made known my diligence and thirst for knowledge.
“Good—very good,” said Mr Cophagus; “fine boy—learns his business—M.D. one of these days—ride in his coach—um, and so on.” Nevertheless, at my second attempt, I made an awkward mistake, which very near led to detection. An Irish labourer, more than half tipsy, came in one evening, and asked whether we had such a thing as was called “A poor man’s plaster. By the powers, it will be a poor man’s plaster when it belongs to me; but they tell me that it is a sure and sartain cure for the thumbago, as they call it, which I’ve at the small of my back, and which is a hinder to my mounting up the ladder; so as it’s Saturday night, and I’ve just got the money, I’ll buy the plaster first, and then try what a little whisky inside will do; the devil’s in it if it won’t be driven out of me between the two.”
We had not that plaster in the shop, but we had blister plaster, and Timothy, handing one to me, I proffered it to him. “And what may you be after asking for this same?” inquired he.
The blister plasters were sold at a shilling each, when spread on paper, so I asked him eighteen-pence, that we might pocket the extra sixpence.
“By the powers, one would think that you had made a mistake, and handed me the rich man’s plaster instead of the poor one’s. It’s less whisky I’ll have to drink, anyhow; but here’s the money, and the top of the morning to ye, seeing as how it’s jist getting late.”
Timothy and I laughed as we divided the sixpence. It appeared that after taking his allowance of whisky, the poor fellow fixed the plaster on his back when he went to bed, and the next morning found himself in a condition not to be envied. It was a week before we saw him again, and much to the horror of Timothy and myself, he walked into the shop when Mr Brookes was employed behind the counter. Timothy perceived him before he saw us, and pulling me behind the large mortar, we contrived to make our escape into the back parlour, the door of which we held ajar to hear what would take place.
“Murder and turf!” cried the man; “but that was the devil’s own plaster that you gave me here for my back, and it left me as raw as a turnip, taking every bit of my skin off me entirely, forebye my lying in bed for a whole week, and losing my day’s work.”
“I ready do not recollect supplying you with a plaster, my good man,” replied Mr Brookes.
“Then, by the piper that played before Moses, if you don’t recollect it, I’ve an idea that I shall never forget it. Sure enough, it cured me, but wasn’t I quite kilt before I was cured?”
“It must have been some other shop,” observed Mr Brookes. “You have made a mistake.”
“Devil a bit of mistake, except in selling me the plaster. Didn’t I get it of a lad in this same shop?”
“Nobody sells things out of this shop without my knowledge.”
The Irishman was puzzled—he looked round the shop. “Well, then, if this a’n’t the shop, it was own sister to it.”
“Timothy,” called Mr Brookes.
“And sure enough there was a Timothy in the other shop, for I heard the boy call the other by the name; however, it’s no matter if it took off the skin, it also took away the thumbago, so the morning to you, Mr Pottykary.”
When the Irishman departed, we made our appearance. “Japhet, did you sell a plaster to an Irishman?”
“Yes—don’t you recollect, last Saturday? and I gave you the shilling.”
“Very true; but what did he ask for?”
“He asked for a plaster, but he was very tipsy. I showed him a blister, and he took it;” and then I looked at Timothy and laughed.
“You must not play such tricks,” said Mr Brookes. “I see what you have been about—it was a joke to you, but not to him.”
Mr Brookes, who imagined we had sold it to the Irishman out of fun, then gave us a very severe lecture, and threatened to acquaint Mr Cophagus if ever we played such tricks again. Thus the affair blew over, and it made me very careful; and, as every day I knew more about medicines, I was soon able to mix them, so as to be of service to those who applied, and before eighteen months had expired, I was trusted with the mixing up of all the prescriptions. At the end of that period Mr Brookes left us, and I took the whole of his department upon myself, giving great satisfaction to Mr Cophagus.
And now that I have announced my promotion, it will perhaps be as well that I give the reader some idea of my personal appearance, upon which I have hitherto been silent. I was thin, between fifteen and sixteen years old, very tall for my age, and of my figure I had no reason to be ashamed; a large beaming eye, with a slightly aquiline nose, a high forehead, fair in complexion, but with very dark hair. I was always what may be termed a remarkably clean-looking boy, from the peculiarity of my skin and complexion; my teeth were small, but were transparent, and I had a very deep dimple in my chin. Like all embryo apothecaries, I carried in my appearance, if not the look of wisdom, most certainly that of self-sufficiency, which does equally well with the world in general. My forehead was smooth, and very white, and my dark locks were combed back systematically, and with a regularity that said, as plainly as hair could do, “The owner of this does everything by prescription, measurement, and rule.” With my long fingers I folded up the little packets, with an air as thoughtful and imposing as that of a minister who has just presented a protocol as interminable as unintelligible; and the look of solemn sagacity with which I poured out the contents of one vial into the other, would have well become the king’s physician, when he watched the “lord’s anointed” in articulo mortis.
As I followed up my saturnine avocation, I generally had an open book on the counter beside me; not a marble-covered dirty volume, from the Minerva press, or a half-bound, half-guinea’s worth of fashionable trash, but a good, honest, heavy-looking, wisdom-implying book, horribly stuffed with epithet of drug; a book in which Latin words were redundant, and here and there were to be observed the crabbed characters of Greek. Altogether, with my book and my look, I cut such a truly medical appearance, that even the most guarded would not have hesitated to allow me the sole conduct of a whitlow, from inflammation to suppuration, and from suppuration to cure, or have refused to have confided to me the entire suppression of a gumboil. Such were my personal qualifications at the time that I
