“Don’t know any w-w-way to s-s-stop it, do you?” asked the landlord.

“No, I d-d-don’t; t-t-tried everything.  Even my ‘universal p-p-panacea’ won’t do it, and what that can’t do can’t be d-d-done.  Incurable d-d-disease.  Get along all right when I go slow like this; but when I open the throttle, get all b-b-balled up.  Bad thing for my business.  Give any man a thousand d-d-dollars that’ll cure me,” the quack replied, slapping his trousers pocket as if there were millions in it.

“Co-co-couldn’t go q-q-quite as high as that; but wouldn’t mind a hu-hu-hundred,” responded the landlord cordially.

“Ever hear the story about the landlord’s troubles in the Mexican war?” asked one of the by-standers turning to the quack.

“Tell it,” he responded laconically.

Several members of the group looked at each other and exchanged significant winks as the narrator began his tale.

“They made him sergeant of a company, but had to reduce him to the ranks, because when he was drilling the boys one day they all marched into the river and got drowned before he could say h-h-halt.”

The doctor laughed and the others joined him out of courtesy, for the story was worn threadbare in the bar-room.

“Tell about his going on picket duty,” suggested some one.

“Captain ordered him out on the line,” said the first speaker, “and he refused.  ‘T-t-tain’t no use,’ says he.

“‘Why not?’ says the captain.

“‘C-c-cause,’ says he, ’if some d-d-dirty Mexican g-g-greaser should c-c-come along, he’d run me through the g-g-gizzard before I could ask him for the c-c-countersign.’”

More tipsy laughter followed.

“Tell you what it is, b-b-boys,” said the quack, growing communicative under the influence of the liquor and the fellowship, “if it wasn’t for this b-b-blankety-blanketed impediment in my s-s-speech, I wouldn’t need to work more’n about another y-y-year!”

“How’s that?” asked someone in the crowd.

“C-c-cause if I could talk as well as I c-c-can think, I could make a fortune ’side of which old John Jacob Astor’s would look like a p-p-penny savings b-b-bank!”

“You could?”

“You bet your sweet life I c-c-could.  And I’m just keeping my eyes open for some young f-f-fellow to help me.  For ’f I can find a man that can do the t-talking (I mean real talk, you know; talk a crowd blind as b-b-bats), I’ve got something better’n a California g-g-gold mine.”

“Better get Dave Corson,” said the village wag from the rear of the crowd, and up went a wild shout of laughter.

“Who’s D-D-Dave Corson?” asked the doctor.

“Quaker preacher.  Young feller ’bout twenty years old.”

“Can he t-t-talk?”

“Talk!  He kin talk a mule into a trottin’ hoss in less’n three minutes.”

“He’s my man!” exclaimed the doctor, at which the crowd laughed again.