Japhet In Search Of A Father Part 1 by Frederick Marryat (any book recommendations .txt) 📖

Timothy.

 

"Selling Two Vials Instead Of One: They Are Never Reckoned,  You Know."

 

"That Will Do Capitally," Cried Timothy; "And Now For Halves." But This

Could Not Be Managed Until Timothy Had Run Out And Changed The Sixpence;

We Then Each Had Our Three-Pence Halfpenny,  And For Once In Our Lives

Could Say That We Had Money In Our Pockets.

 

Part 1 Chapter 3 Pg 14

 

     I Perform A Wonderful Cure Upon St John Long'S Principle,  Having

     Little Or No Principle Of My Own--I Begin To Puzzle My Head With A

     Problem; Of All Others Most Difficult To Solve.

 

 

 

 

The Success Of Our First Attempt Encouraged Us To Proceed; But Afraid

That I Might Do Some Mischief,  I Asked Of Mr Brookes The Nature And

Qualities Of The Various Medicines,  As He Was Mixing The Prescriptions,

That I Might Avoid Taking Any Of Those Which Were Poisonous. Mr Brookes,

Part 1 Chapter 3 Pg 15

Pleased With My Continual Inquiries,  Gave Me All The Information I Could

Desire,  And Thus I Gained,  Not Only A Great Deal Of Information,  But

Also A Great Deal Of Credit With Mr Cophagus,  To Whom Mr Brookes Had

Made Known My Diligence And Thirst For Knowledge.

 

"Good--Very Good," Said Mr Cophagus; "Fine Boy--Learns His

Business--M.D. One Of These Days--Ride In His Coach--Um,  And So On."

Nevertheless,  At My Second Attempt,  I Made An Awkward Mistake,  Which

Very Nearly Led To Detection. An Irish Labourer,  More Than Half Tipsy,

Came In One Evening,  And Asked Whether We Had Such A Thing As Was Called

"_A Poor Man'S Plaister_. By The Powers,  It Will Be A Poor Man'S

Plaister When It Belongs To Me; But They Tell Me That It Is A Sure And

Sartain Cure For The Thumbago,  As They Call It,  Which I'Ve At The Small

Of My Back,  And Which Is A Hinder To My Mounting Up The Ladder; So As

It'S Saturday Night,  And I'Ve Just Got The Money,  I'Ll Buy The Plaister

First,  And Then Try What A Little Whiskey Inside Will Do,  The Devil'S In

It If It Won'T Be Driven Out Of Me Between The Two."

 

We Had Not That Plaister In The Shop,  But We Had Blister Plaister,  And

Timothy,  Handing One To Me,  I Proffered It To Him. "And What May You Be

After Asking For This Same?" Inquired He.

 

The Blister Plaisters Were Sold At A Shilling Each,  When Spread On

Paper,  So I Asked Him Eighteen-Pence,  That We Might Pocket The Extra

Sixpence.

 

"By The Powers,  One Would Think That You Had Made A Mistake,  And Handed

Me The Rich Man'S Plaister,  Instead Of The Poor One'S. It'S Less Whiskey

I'Ll Have To Drink,  Anyhow; But Here'S The Money,  And The Top Of The

Morning To Ye,  Seeing As How It'S Jist Getting Late."

 

Timothy And I Laughed As We Divided The Sixpence. It Appeared That After

Taking His Allowance Of Whiskey,  The Poor Fellow Fixed The Plaister On

His Back When He Went To Bed,  And The Next Morning Found Himself In a

Condition Not Be Envied. It Was A Week Before We Saw Him Again,  And Much

To The Horror Of Timothy And Myself,  He Walked Into The Shop When Mr

Brookes Was Employed Behind The Counter. Timothy Perceived Him Before He

Saw Us,  And Pulling Me Behind The Large Mortar,  We Contrived To Make Our

Escape Into The Back Parlour,  The Door Of Which We Held Ajar To Hear

What Would Take Place.

 

"Murder And Turf!" Cried The Man,  "But That Was The Devil'S Own Plaister

That You Gave Me Here For My Back,  And It Left Me As Raw As A Turnip,

Taking Every Bit Of My Skin Off Me Entirely,  Foreby My Lying In bed For

A Whole Week,  And Losing My Day'S Work."

 

"I Really Do Not Recollect Supplying You With A Plaister,  My Good Man,"

Replied Mr Brookes.

 

"Then By The Piper That Played Before Moses,  If You Don'T Recollect It,

I'Ve An Idea That I Shall Never Forget It. Sure Enough,  It Cured Me,  But

Part 1 Chapter 3 Pg 16

Wasn'T I Quite Kilt Before I Was Cured?"

 

"It Must Have Been Some Other Shop," Observed Mr Brookes. "You Have Made

A Mistake."

 

"Devil A Bit Of A Mistake,  Except In Selling Me The Plaister. Didn'T I

Get It Of A Lad In This Same Shop?"

 

"Nobody Sells Things Out Of This Shop Without My Knowledge."

 

The Irishman Was Puzzled--He Looked Round The Shop. "Well,  Then,  If This

A'N'T The Shop,  It Was Own Sister To It."

 

"Timothy," Called Mr Brookes.

 

"And Sure Enough There Was A Timothy In The Other Shop,  For I Heard The

Boy Call The Other By The Name; However,  It'S No Matter,  If It Took Off

The Skin,  It Also Took Away The Thumbago,  So The Morning To You,  Mr

Pottykarry."

 

When The Irishman Departed,  We Made Our Appearance. "Japhet,  Did You

Sell A Plaister To An Irishman?"

 

"Yes--Don'T You Recollect,  Last Saturday? And I Gave You The Shilling."

 

"Very True; But What Did He Ask For?"

 

"He Asked For A Plaister,  But He Was Very Tipsy. I Showed Him A Blister,

And He Took It;" And Then I Looked At Timothy And Laughed.

 

"You Must Not Play Such Tricks," Said Mr Brookes. "I See What You Have

Been About--It Was A Joke To You,  But Not To Him."

 

Mr Brookes,  Who Imagined We Had Sold It To The Irishman Out Of Fun,  Then

Gave Us A Very Severe Lecture,  And Threatened To Acquaint Mr Cophagus,

If Ever We Played Such Tricks Again. Thus The Affair Blew Over,  And It

Made Me Very Careful; And,  As Every Day I Knew More About Medicines,  I

Was Soon Able To Mix Them,  So As To Be Of Service To Those Who Applied,

And Before Eighteen Months Had Expired,  I Was Trusted With The Mixing Up

All The Prescriptions. At The End Of That Period Mr Brookes Left Us,  And

I Took The Whole Of His Department Upon Myself,  Giving Great

Satisfaction To Mr Cophagus.

 

And Now That I Have Announced My Promotion,  It Will Perhaps Be As Well

That I Give The Reader Some Idea Of My Personal Appearance,  Upon Which I

Have Hitherto Been Silent. I Was Thin,  Between Fifteen And Sixteen Years

Old,  Very Tall For My Age,  And Of My Figure I Had No Reason To Be

Ashamed; A Large Beaming Eye,  With A Slightly Aquiline Nose,  A High

Forehead,  Fair In complexion,  But With Very Dark Hair. I Was Always What

May Be Termed A Remarkably Clean-Looking Boy,  From The Peculiarity Of My

Skin And Complexion; My Teeth Were Small,  But Were Transparent,  And I

Part 1 Chapter 3 Pg 17

Had A Very Deep Dimple In My Chin. Like All Embryo Apothecaries,  I

Carried In My Appearance,  If Not The Look Of Wisdom,  Most Certainly That

Of Self-Sufficiency,  Which Does Equally Well With The World In General.

My Forehead Was Smooth,  And Very White,  And My Dark Locks Were Combed

Back Systematically,  And With A Regularity That Said,  As Plainly As Hair

Could Do,  "The Owner Of This Does Everything By Prescription,

Measurement,  And Rule." With My Long Fingers I Folded Up The Little

Packets,  With An Air As Thoughtful And Imposing As That Of A Minister

Who Has Just Presented A Protocol As Interminable As Unintelligible: And

The Look Of Solemn Sagacity With Which I Poured Out The Contents Of One

Vial Into The Other,  Would Have Well Become The King'S Physician,  When

He Watched The "Lord'S Anointed" In _Articulo Mortis_.

 

As I Followed Up My Saturnine Avocation,  I Generally Had An Open Book On

The Counter Beside Me; Not A Marble-Covered Dirty Volume,  From The

Minerva Press,  Or A Half-Bound,  Half-Guinea'S Worth Of Fashionable

Trash,  But A Good,  Honest,  Heavy-Looking,  Wisdom-Implying Book,  Horribly

Stuffed With Epithet Of Drug; A Book In Which Latin Words Were

Redundant,  And Here And There Were To Be Observed The Crabbed Characters

Of Greek. Altogether,  With My Book And My Look,  I Cut Such A Truly

Medical Appearance,  That Even The Most Guarded Would Not Have Hesitated

To Allow Me The Sole Conduct Of A Whitlow,  From Inflammation To

Suppuration,  And From Suppuration To Cure,  Or Have Refused To Have

Confided To Me The Entire Suppression Of A Gumboil. Such Were My

Personal Qualifications At The Time That I Was Raised To The Important

Office Of Dispenser Of,  I May Say,  Life And Death.

 

It Will Not Surprise The Reader When I Tell Him That I Was Much Noticed

By Those Who Came To Consult,  Or Talk With,  Mr Cophagus. "A Very Fine

Looking Lad That,  Mr Cophagus," An Acquaintance Would Say. "Where Did

You Get Him--Who Is His Father?"

 

"Father!" Mr Cophagus Would Reply,  When They Had Gained The

Back Parlour,  But I Could Overhear Him,  "Father,  Um--Can'T

Tell--Love--Concealment--Child Born--Foundling Hospital--Put Out--And So

On."

 

This Was Constantly Occurring,  And The Constant Occurrence Made Me

Often Reflect Upon My Condition,  Which Otherwise I Might,  From The Happy

And Even Tenor Of My Life,  Have Forgotten. When I Retired To My Bed I

Would Revolve In My Mind All That I Had Gained From The Governors Of The

Hospital Relative To Myself.--The Paper Found In The Basket Had Been

Given To Me. I Was Born In Wedlock--At Least,  So Said That Paper. The

Sum Left With Me Also Proved That My Parents Could Not,  At My Birth,

Have Been Paupers. The Very Peculiar Circumstances Attending My Case,

Only Made Me More Anxious To Know My Parentage. I Was Now Old Enough To

Be Aware Of The Value Of Birth,  And I Was Also Just Entering The Age Of

Romance,  And Many Were The Strange And Absurd Reveries In Which I

Indulged. At One Time I Would Cherish The Idea That I