“Very well,” I said, “what do you want me to do about it?”
Perkins wanted a year of my time, and all the money I could spare.
He mentioned twenty thousand dollars as a little beginning--a sort of
starter, as he put it. I had faith in Perkins, but twenty thousand was a
large sum to put into a thing on the strength of a name and a phrase. I
settled myself in my chair, and Perkins put his feet up on my desk. He
always could talk better when his feet were tilted up. Perhaps it sent a
greater flow of blood to his brain.
“Now about the water?” I asked comfortably.
“Vile!” cackled Perkins, gleefully. “Perfectly vile! It is the worst you
ever tasted. You know the sulphur-spring taste? Sort of bad-egg aroma?
Well, this O-no-to-so-forth water is worse than the worst. It's a
bonanza! Say! It's sulphur water with a touch of garlic.” He reached
into his pocket, and brought out a flask. The water it contained was
as clear and sparkling as crystal. He removed the cork, and handed the
flask to me. I sniffed at it, and hastily replaced the cork.
Perkins grinned with pleasure.
“Fierce, isn't it?” he asked. “Smells as if it ought to cure, don't it?
Got the real old style matery-medica-'pothecary-shop aroma. None of your
little-pill, sugar-coated business about O-no-to-cetera water.
Not for a minute! It's the good old quinine, ipecac, calomel,
know-when-you're-taking-dose sort. Why, say! Any man that takes a dose
of that water has got to feel better. He deserves to feel better.”