day John MacDonald, the chief pilot and a mighty man on the river,
came to my tent on Grand Island. John complained that he couldn't
hold anything on his stomach; he was a total peristaltic wreck indeed
(my words; his were more simple and more vivid, but less sonorous
and professional). He said he had been going down hill for two
weeks, and was so bad now that he was "no better than a couple of
ordinary men."

"Exactly so," I said. "Now you take these pills and you'll be all
right in the morning." Next morning John was back, and complained
that my pills had no effect; he wanted to feel something take hold
of him. Hadn't 1 any pepper-juice or brandy?

I do not take liquor on an expedition, but at the last moment
a Winnipeg friend had given me a pint flask of pure brandy--"for
emergencies." An emergency had come.

"John! you shall have some extra fine brandy, nicely thinned with
pepper-juice." I poured half an inch of brandy into a tin cup, then
added half an inch of "pain-killer."

"Here, take this, and if you don't feel it, it means your insides
are dead, and you may as well order your coffin."

John took it at a gulp. His insides were not dead; but I might have
been, had I been one of his boatmen.

He doubled up, rolled around, and danced for five minutes. He did
not squeal--John never squeals--but he suffered some, and an hour
later announced that he was about cured.