“The sooner the better.  What am I to do?”

“Not too fast!  There are times when it is better to g-g-go slow, as the snail said to the lightning.  We must make a b-b-bargain.”

“Make it to suit yourself.”

“You d-d-don’t expect me to stick to my old offer, I reckon.  When I made it, Mahomet went to the m-m-mountain, and now the mountain comes to Mahomet; see?”

“Do as you please, I am in no mood to split hairs, nor pennies.  All I ask is a chance to put my foot upon the first round of the ladder and if I do not get to the top, I shall not hold you responsible,” David replied, dropping the “thees” of his Quaker life, in his determination to divest himself of all its customs as rapidly as he could.

“Hi! hi!  There’s fire in the flint!  Good thing! you don’t want to split pennies!  Well, if you d-d-don’t, I don’t.  You take me on the right side, D-D-Davy.  I’ll do the square thing by you—­see if I d-d-don’t.  Let’s have a drink.  Bring the bottle, Pepeeta!”

She went to the mantel and returned with a flask and two glasses.  The quack filled them both and passed one to David.  It was the first time in his life that he had ever even smelt an intoxicant.  He recoiled a little; but having committed himself to his new life, he determined to accept all that it involved.  He lifted the fiery potion to his lips, and drank.

“Hot, is it, my son?” cried the doctor, laughing uproariously at his wry face.  “You Quakers drink too much water!  Freezes inside of you and t-t-turns you into what you might call two-p-p-pronged icicles.  Give me men with red blood in their veins!  And there’s nothing makes b-b-blood red like strong liquors!”

The whisky revived the courage and loosened the tongue of the youth.  The repugnance which he had instinctively felt for the vulgar quack began to mellow into admiration.  He asked and answered many questions.

“What part am I to take in this business?” he asked.

“What part are you to take in the business?  That’s good, ’Never put off till to-morrow what you can d-d-do to-day.’  ’Business first and then pleasure.’  ‘The soul of business is dispatch.’  These are good mottoes, my lad.  I learned them from the wise men; but if I had not learned them, I should have invented them.  What’s your p-p-part of the business, says you; listen!  You are to be its m-m-mouth-piece.  That tongue of yours must wag like the tail of a d-d-dog; turn like a weather-vane; hiss like a serpent, drip with honey and poison, be tipped with p-p-persuasion; tell ten thousand t-t-tales, and every tale must sell a bottle of p-p-panacea!”

He paused, and looked rapturously upon the face of his pupil.

“This panacea—­has it merits?  Will it really cure?” asked David.

The doctor laughed long and loud.

“Has it merits?  Will it really cure?  Ho! ho!  ’Is thy bite good for the b-b-backache?’ said the sick mouse to the cat.  What difference does it make whether it will cure or not?  Success in b-b-business is not based upon the quality of the m-m-merchandise, my son.”