When daylight broke I was a total wreck, and I swore that the next
person that said whiskey and quinine to me would get all his.
After breakfast another friend of ours, Jack Gibson, blew in, and
after he looked me over his weary eye fell on the decanter.
Then Jack smacked his lips and whispered that the best cure for the
grip was a glass of whiskey and quinine every time I felt chills
and fever, and he'd be glad to join me.
When loving hands picked Jack up at the bottom of the stairs he was
almost insulted, but he quieted down when my wife explained to him
that I was suffering not only from the grip but that I had also a
slight attack of jiu jitsu.
After weeks of study devoted to the subject I have come to the
conclusion that the only way to cure the grip is to stay sick until
you get better.
That's what I did!