"Shake!" responded the doctor, who was in too complacent a mood to take
offence, and the worthies grasped hands.

"Don't know any w-w-way to s-s-stop it, do you?" asked the landlord.

"No, I d-d-don't; t-t-tried everything. Even my 'universal p-p-panacea'
won't do it, and what that can't do can't be d-d-done. Incurable
d-d-disease. Get along all right when I go slow like this; but when I
open the throttle, get all b-b-balled up. Bad thing for my business.
Give any man a thousand d-d-dollars that'll cure me," the quack replied,
slapping his trousers pocket as if there were millions in it.

"Co-co-couldn't go q-q-quite as high as that; but wouldn't mind a
hu-hu-hundred," responded the landlord cordially.

"Ever hear the story about the landlord's troubles in the Mexican war?"
asked one of the by-standers turning to the quack.

"Tell it," he responded laconically.

Several members of the group looked at each other and exchanged
significant winks as the narrator began his tale.

"They made him sergeant of a company, but had to reduce him to the
ranks, because when he was drilling the boys one day they all marched
into the river and got drowned before he could say h-h-halt."

The doctor laughed and the others joined him out of courtesy, for the
story was worn threadbare in the bar-room.