the rest of the family around the bedside on a hurry call.

When I told them I had the grip each and every member of the
household from Uncle Peter down to the cook began to suggest
remedies, and if I had taken half they suggested they could have
sold me to a junk dealer and got good money.

That evening our next door neighbor, Bud Taylor, came in and
advised me to take quinine and whiskey every time I felt a shooting
pain.

I took his advice, but at the end of the first hour the score was
98 to 37 in favor of the shooting pains, and the whiskey had such
an effect on the quinine that it made the germs jealous, so between
them they cooked up a little black man who advised me to chase Bud
out of the house, which I did by throwing medicine bottles at him.

That night the whiskey and quinine held a director's meeting with
the germs and then they wound up with a sort of Mardi Gras parade
through my system.

I was the goat!

When daylight broke I was a total wreck, and I swore that the next
person that said whiskey and quinine to me would get all his.

After breakfast another friend of ours, Jack Gibson, blew in, and
after he looked me over his weary eye fell on the decanter.

Then Jack smacked his lips and whispered that the best cure for the