B-u-t," he added with reflective slowness, and a merry
twinkle in his eye, "if things were to be judged by their
product, I am afraid your mother would win easily," and he laid
his long, thin, scrawny hand beside the broad, strong hand of the
growing youth.
"Old Sylvanne wasn't far astray when he said: 'There aren't any
sick, 'cept them as thinks they are,"' said Rolf. "I suppose I
ought to begin to taper off," was the reply. But the tapering
was very sudden. Before a week went by, it seemed desirable to
go back for the stuff left in cache on the Schroon, where, of
course, it was subject to several risks. There seemed no object
in taking Van Cortlandt back, but they could not well leave him
alone. He went. He had kept time with fair regularity --
calomel, rhubarb; calomel, rhubarb; calomel, rhubarb, squills --
but Rolf's remarks had sunk into his intelligence, as a red-hot
shot will sink through shingles, letting in light and creating
revolution.
This was a rhubarb morning. He drank his potion, then, carefully
stoppering the bottle, he placed it with its companions in a box
and stowed that near the middle of the canoe.
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