“Well, I just guess I do,” answered Tom, with a grin.  “Hullo, Mr. Ricks!” he called out.  “How are you this fine and frosty morning?”

“Putty well, Tom,” grumbled the old station master.  “Been troubled a lot lately with rheumatism.”

“That’s too bad, Mr. Ricks.  Caught it hoisting trunks into the cars, I suppose.”

“Don’t know how I caught it.”

“Or maybe lifting milk cans.”

“I don’t lift no milk cans no more.  Job Todder has that work around here.”

“I see.  Well, you must have caught it somehow, or else it caught you.  Ever tried the old Indian remedy for it?”

“Indian remedy, what’s that?”

“Gracious, Mr. Ricks! never heard of the old reliable Indian remedy?  I’m astonished at you,” went on Tom, in mock candor.

“I’ve heard tell of Indian vegetable pills—­but they aint no good for rheumatism,” was the slow answer.

“Where is the pain mostly?”

“Down this left leg.”

“Then the Indian remedy will just cure you, sure pop, Mr. Ricks.”

“Well, what might it be?”

“It might be cover-liver oil, but it isn’t.  You get a quart bottle—­a red quart bottle, for a white one won’t do,—­and fill it with cold spring water, tapped when the moon is full.”

“Is that all?”

“Oh, no, no!  Then you take the spring water and boil it over a charcoal fire, same as the Modoc Indians used to do.  You remember all about that, don’t you?”

“I—­I—­’pears to me I ought to,” stammered the old station master.

“Well, after the water is boiled,” went on Tom, with a side wink at Dick and Sam, who were already on a broad grin, “you strain it through a piece of red cheesecloth—­not white, remember—­and add one teaspoonful of sugar, one of salt, one of ginger, one of mustard, one of hog’s lard, one of mercury, one of arrowroot, one of kerosene oil, one of lemon juice, one of extract of vanilla, one of mushamusha——­”

“Hold on Rover, I can’t remember all that.  I’ll have to put it down,” interrupted Nat Ricks.

“No, you don’t put it down until everything is in and well mixed.  Then you put it down, half a pint at a time, four times a day.  It’s a sure cure, and inside of a week after taking seventeen quarts and rubbing the empty bottles on your left shoulder blade you’ll feel like dancing a jig of joy; really, you will.”

“Oh, you go along!” growled the old station master, in sudden wrath.  “You’re joking me.  Go oh, or I’ll throw something at you!”

“No bouquets, please, Mr. Ricks.  Then you won’t try the cure?  All right, but don’t blame me if your rheumatism gets worse.  And as I can’t do anything for you, will you kindly inform me if you’ve seen anything of Jack Ness around here, with our turnout?”

“If you want your hired man you go find him yourself,” growled the station master, and hobbled into his office.

“Oh, Tom, but that was rich,” laughed Sam softly.  “When you said extract of vanilla and mushamusha I thought I’d explode.  And he was listening so earnestly, too!”