Those who go in search of trouble usually find it. They deserve no
sympathy and seldom get any.
The well-meaning man frequently meets with trouble too, although it is
the one thing he doesn't want. When he is in difficulties, people pity
him; they give him that pity which is akin to contempt, not to love.
But Harry Warner was lucky. He most certainly went in search of trouble;
he also meant well. His reward was unusual and quite out of proportion
to the little good he did. He achieved immortal, if only local, fame.
It was the natives who dubbed him "doctor." He wasn't one, he had no
medical qualifications and little knowledge of medicine.
But what do black people know or care about qualifications? Wasn't
Warner always accessible? Did he not give medicine to all who asked for
it, no matter what the disease might be? Did not some of those to whom
he gave medicine recover? Had he ever asked anyone for payment?
What a doctor!
So the natives declared, and do still declare, that there never has
been, never will be, never could be so great a doctor in their country
as he.
Now if Warner possessed no medical knowledge, he had the "goods." The
goods consisted of a miscellaneous collection of superfluous drugs,
plasters and pills, all a little stale, packed in an old whisky case and
presented to him by a hospital orderly of his acquaintance.
Warner watched the packing and asked questions.
"Iodine, what's that for?"
"Oh, sore throat, water on the knee, to stop vomiting, for fixing a
gumboil, chilblains, and a host of other things. It's made from
seaweed."
"Do you drink it?"
"Not in every case, not with housemaid's knee or sore throat, anyway.
You paint it in the throat or on the knee. Here, we'd better put you in
a camel's hairbrush."
"Good. And what's nitrate of potash for?"
"Well, if you have an inflamed eye, put a spot or two in this eye-cup,
fill it up with water and blink into it--like this."
"Thanks. And what do you use chlorodyne for?"
"Bad pains in the stomach."
"I see. And quinine is good for fever, of course."
"Yes, that's right. Cover a sixpence with the powder, mix it with a
little whisky, add a little water, and toss it off."
"And corrosive sublimate?"
"Oh, that's good stuff for washing wounds with, jolly good. Don't make
it too strong or you'll burn the bottom out of the pot you mix it in,
not to mention the wounded part. About one in ten thousand makes a
useful solution if the water you use isn't too dirty."
"I understand. And what is in this funny little box marked 'Sovereign
Remedy'?"
"Dash it all! That box belongs to my set of conjuring tricks. Can't
think how it's got mixed up with this lot. But you may as well take it
along; you might want to surprise the natives and you'll certainly do it
with that."
"How do you use it?"
"It's all on the box, full directions."
"And what's in all these pill boxes? Pills?"
"Yes, pills."
"But what are they all for?"
"Bless the man! I haven't time to wade through the lot. Besides, you
must know in a general way what pills are for. All the boxes have the
dose on them. Now let's get a move on. Give a hand with the packing. I'm
on duty in half an hour."
* * * * *
And now we know just as much about doctoring as Warner did on the
threshhold of his short medical career. Even a real doctor has much to
learn before he reaches Harley Street; he picks up many wrinkles on the
way and much improves with practice.