The tired ponies slept in the shade of
the lombardies. The plain was draped in a warm mist and
shadowed by vast, vaguely defined masses of clouds-a lazy June
day.
"Dodd's Family Bitters," said the man, waking out of his
abstraction with a start and resuming his working manner. "The
best bitter in the market." He alluded to it in the singular. "Like to
look at it? No trouble to show goods, as the fellah says," he went
on hastily, seeing Uncle Ethan's hesitation.
He produced a large bottle of triangular shape, like a bottle for
pickled onions. It had a red seal on top and a strenuous caution in
red letters on the neck, "None genuine unless 'Dodd's Family
Bittem' is blown in the bottom."
"Here's what it cures," pursued the agent, pointing at the side,
where; in an inverted pyramid, the names of several hundred
diseases were arranged, running from "gout" to "pulmonary
complaints," etc.
"I gol! She cuts a wide swath, don't she?" exclaimed Uncle Ethan,
profoundly impressed with the list.
"They ain't no better bitter in the world," said the agent with a
conclusive inflection.
"What's its speshy-ality? Most of 'em have some speshy-ality."
"Well-summer complaints-an'-an'-spring an' fall troubles-tones ye
up, sort of.
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