back it up. We’ll make some of these Eastern orange-phosphate-and-massage-cream professors that think they’re the only lozenges in the market look like hypodermic tablets.”
“If I can be of any aid,” I said, warming, “the two bottles of—er—”
“Tartrate of antimony and potash, and tartrate of soda and potash.”
“Shall henceforth sit side by side,” I concluded, firmly.
“Now, there’s another thing,” said Mr. Bolder. “For an excipient in manipulating a pill mass which do you prefer—the magnesia carbonate or the pulverized glycerrhiza radix?”
“The—er—magnesia,” I said. It was easier to say than the other word.
Mr. Bolder glanced at me distrustfully through his spectacles.
“Give me the glycerrhiza,” said he. “Magnesia cakes.”
“Here’s another one of these fake aphasia cases,” he said, presently, handing me his newspaper, and laying his finger upon an article. “I don’t believe in ’em. I put nine out of ten of ’em down as frauds. A man gets sick of his business and his folks and wants to have a good time. He skips out somewhere, and when they find him he pretends to have lost his memory—don’t
