"I never touch the stuff and you both know it," he snarled. He had a
fresh pain just then and stopped, clutching up the bottle. "Besides," he
finished, when it was over, "I haven't got any whisky."

Well, to make a long story short, we got him to agree to some whisky
from the pharmacy, with a drop of peppermint in it, if he could wash it
down with spring water so it wouldn't do him any harm.

"There isn't any spring water in the house," I said, losing my temper a
little, "and I'm not going out there in my bedroom slippers, Mr.
Moody. I don't see why your eating what you shouldn't needs to give me
pneumonia."

Mrs. Moody was standing beside the bed, and I saw her double chin
begin to work. If you have ever seen a fat woman, in a short red kimono
holding a candle by, a bed, and crying, you know how helpless she looks.

"Don't go, Minnie," she sniffled. "It would be too awful. If you are
afraid you could take the poker."

"I'm not going!" I declared firmly. "It's--it's dratted idiocy, that's
all. Plain water would do well enough. There's a lot of people think
whisky is poison with water, anyhow. Where's the pitcher?"

Oh, yes, I went. I put on some stockings of Mrs. Moody's and a petticoat
and a shawl and started. It was when I was in the pharmacy looking for
the peppermint that I first noticed my joint again. A joint like that's
a blessing or a curse, the way you look at it.