cleared his throat, as if about to commence an oration, and set off at a
smart pace towards the farm-house whose chimneys peeped over the hill.

A dog barked surlily as Nickie passed up the garden walk, but Nickie knew
the character and quality of dogs, no beat better, and he recognised this
one as harmless to man. A woman came to the door, wiping her fat, red
arms on a canvas apron.

"A very good day to you, madam," said Mr. Crips, lifting his belltopper
with some grace, and bowing slightly. "I have taken the liberty of
calling upon you to bring under your attention my celebrated
medicine--Dr. Crips's Healing Mixture, for coughs, colds, consumption
indigestion, biliousness and all bronchial complaints."

He took a bottle from his bag and shook it invitingly, his voice was
respectful and very persuasive, but by no means subservient. Nickie's
voice was his most valuable possession; it had a note so winning, so
appealing, that it was only with strong effort that ordinary people could
resist it.

"No," said the woman, "we ain't got any o' them complaints."

"Headache, earache, toothache, lumbago, Bright's disease?" said Nickie,
suggestively.

"No." The woman shook her head. "We ain't got nothin' in the 'ouse but
rhoomertism in me ole man's back. He's bin laid up three weeks with it."

"Dr. Crips's Rheumatic Balm!" exclaimed Nickie, with decision, restoring
the first bottle to the bag, and producing another of exactly the same