"I have hit the wrong boy. It is not the new boy. Why are
you not the new boy? Why are you not Gert Schwankfelder?"
'"I don't know," I said. "The gentleman in the pink blanket
brought me."
'Says the Indian, "He is hungry, Toby. Christians always feed
the hungry. So I bring him."
'"You should have said that first," said Toby. He pushed
plates at me and the Indian put bread and pork on them, and a
glass of Madeira wine. I told him I was off the French ship, which
I had joined on account of my mother being French. That was
true enough when you think of it, and besides I saw that the
French was all the fashion in Philadelphia. Toby and the Indian
whispered and I went on picking up the pills.
'"You like pills - eh?" says Toby.
'"No," I says. "I've seen our ship's doctor roll too many of
em.'
'"Ho!" he says, and he shoves two bottles at me. "What's
those?"
'"Calomel," I says. "And t'other's senna.
'"Right," he says. "One week have I tried to teach Gert
Schwankfelder the difference between them, yet he cannot tell.
You like to fiddle?" he says. He'd just seen my kit on the floor.
'"Oh yes!" says I,
'"Oho!" he says. "What note is this?" drawing his bow across.
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