one bottle of the same as a certain cure for a peculiar disorder in pigs.

Nickie was going along the main road, heading north, branching off to the
farm-houses by the way to sell his cure-all. He sold one guileless
housewife a bottle, assuring her that it would convert brass spoons into
real silver. A little mercury in a rag helped this trifling deception. On
the third day Nickie had to buy some gingernuts to make a fresh supply of
the Healing Mixture, and bottles were running short. He saw fortune
staring him in the face.

It was about eleven, and Mr. Crips was trudging contentedly along, the
road, swinging his bag and singing his tender lay, at peace with the
world, and buoyed with great hopes, when a trap drove up and a voice out
of the accompanying dust said:--

"That's 'im. That's the bloke!" A man jumped down and advanced to Nickie,
and laid hands on him.

"You're that doctor bloke what's selling the Rheumatic Balm, ain't yeh?"
he asked.

Nickie said nothing. Retribution had overtaken him. He knew that. His
fair dreams fell from him, he sighed deeply, and philosophically, as was
his wont, abandoned himself to the inevitable.

There were two young men in the trap. They hoisted Nickie to the seat
behind, and drove on. No explanation was offered, and Mr Crips expected
none. They would come, he imagined, along with the familiar penalties.
One of the young men did remark, with cheerful enthusiasm: "You're in fer
it all right, blokie," but Nickie the Kid only sighed.