He took a bottle from his bag and shook it invitingly, his voice was respectful and very persuasive, but by no means subservient.  Nickie’s voice was his most valuable possession; it had a note so winning, so appealing, that it was only with strong effort that ordinary people could resist it.

“No,” said the woman, “we ain’t got any o’ them complaints.”

“Headache, earache, toothache, lumbago, Bright’s disease?” said Nickie, suggestively.

“No.”  The woman shook her head.  “We ain’t got nothin’ in the ’ouse but rhoomertism in me ole man’s back.  He’s bin laid up three weeks with it.”

“Dr. Crips’s Rheumatic Balm!” exclaimed Nickie, with decision, restoring the first bottle to the bag, and producing another of exactly the same mixture.  “Cures rheumatism in two hours.  Gives instant relief in cases of neuralgia and sciatica.  A little to be rubbed on the affected parts night and morning.”

The woman took the bottle, examined it closely, shook it up, and said, “It looks good.”

“It’s invaluable, madam,” replied Nickie, with quiet conviction.  “No family should be without it.  Two shillings, if you please.”

The woman took a bottle, and when leaving, Nickie the Kid turned and said, “I shall be back this way in a week, and shall do myself the honour of calling on you for a testimonial, if I may?”

At the next farm-house Nickie had a man to deal with.  The man began by wanting to throw Dr. Crips over the fence, and ended by buying a bottle of his Infallible Hair Restorer, and paying him half-a-crown for professional advice in the case of a brown cow afflicted with mumps.

Nickie the Kid had put in the busiest day of his varied career, and here he rested from his labours.  With six and six in his pocket he could afford luxuries.  That night he slept in a bed at the Harrow Hotel, and next morning breakfasted on grilled bacon and boiled eggs.  Before leaving, he sold the publican two bottles of the world-famous Healing Mixture as a pick-me-up.

On the second day the doctor set out to cover as much ground as possible.  He was astute enough to recognise the wisdom of moving on before his customers had time to compare notes.  Before noon, he sold six bottles of the Healing Mixture for influenza, two bottles of the Rheumatic Balm, and one bottle of the same as a certain cure for a peculiar disorder in pigs.

Nickie was going along the main road, heading north, branching off to the farm-houses by the way to sell his cure-all.  He sold one guileless housewife a bottle, assuring her that it would convert brass spoons into real silver.  A little mercury in a rag helped this trifling deception.  On the third day Nickie had to buy some gingernuts to make a fresh supply of the Healing Mixture, and bottles were running short.  He saw fortune staring him in the face.

It was about eleven, and Mr. Crips was trudging contentedly along, the road, swinging his bag and singing his tender lay, at peace with the world, and buoyed with great hopes, when a trap drove up and a voice out of the accompanying dust said:—­