"I will join you, sir, in just a taste of brandy," said Doctor Gregg,
rising quickly. "I find that as a prophylactic a little brandy is
almost a necessity in this climate."

As they turned to enter the ~pulperia~ a native man, barefoot,
glided noiselessly up and addressed the doctor in Spanish. He was
yellowish-brown, like an over-ripe lemon; he wore a cotton shirt and
ragged linen trousers girded by a leather belt. His face was like
an animal's, live and wary, but without promise of much intelligence.
This man jabbered with animation and so much seriousness that it
seemed a pity that his words were to be wasted.

Doctor Gregg felt his pulse.

"You sick?" he inquired.

"~Mi mujer es enferma en la casa,~" said the man, thus endeavoring
to convey the news, in the only language open to him, that his wife
lay ill in her palm-thatched hut.

The doctor drew a handful of capsules filled with a white powder from
his trousers pocket. He counted out ten of them into the native's
hand, and held up his forefinger impressively.

"Take one," said the doctor, "every two hours." He then held up two
fingers, shaking them emphatically before the native's face. Next he
pulled out his watch and ran his finger round the dial twice. Again
the two fingers confronted the patient's nose. "Two--two--two
hours," repeated the doctor.