He reached a druggist's shop, and entered. The druggist (whose
smooth manners seemed to have been salved over with his own
spermaceti) listened attentively to Barton's description of
Davenport's illness; concluded it was typhus fever, very prevalent
in that neighbourhood; and proceeded to make up a bottle of
medicine, sweet spirits of nitre, or some such innocent potion, very
good for slight colds, but utterly powerless to stop, for an
instant, the raging fever of the poor man it was intended to
relieve. He recommended the same course they had previously
determined to adopt, applying the next morning for an Infirmary
order; and Barton left the shop with comfortable faith in the physic
given him; for men of his class, if they believe in physic at all,
believe that every description is equally efficacious.
Meanwhile, Wilson had done what he could at Davenport's home. He
had soothed, and covered the man many a time; he had fed and hushed
the little child, and spoken tenderly to the woman, who lay still in
her weakness and her weariness.
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