Jackson Spolger, proprietor of that celebrated patent medicine, "Spolger's Soother," was a long, lean, lank man, with a somewhat cross face, and a mildly irritable manner. Spolger the father had been a chemist, but having invented the "Soother," made his fortune thereby, owing to lavish advertising and plenty of testimonials (paid for) from hypochondriacal celebrities. Having thus fulfilled his mission in this world, and benefited his fellow men by the "Soother," he departed therefrom, leaving his money and his "Soother" to Spolger the son, who still carried on the advertising business, and derived a large income from it. He had been well educated, had travelled a good deal, and had a kind of social veneer, which, added to his money, entitled him to be called a gentleman. Although he suffered a good deal from ill-health, he never by any chance used the "Soother," which led ill-natured people to remark that it was made to sell and not to cure. Mr. Spolger, however, did not mind ill-natured people being too much taken up with himself and his ailments, of which he was always talking. He chatted constantly about his own liver, or some one else's liver, prescribed remedies, talked gloomily of his near death, and altogether was not a particularly agreeable person. Being thus a diseased egotist, he carried his mania for health even into his matrimonial prospects, and loved Florry not so much on account of her beauty as because she looked delicate, and in a wife of such a constitution he thought he would always have some one beside him, on whom to practise his little curative theories. He always carried in his pocket a horrible little book called "Till the Doctor Comes," and was never so delighted as when he found some one sufficiently ill who would permit him to prescribe one of the remedies from his precious book. He preferred a chemist's shop to his own house, loved doctors above all other men, and contemplated passing his honeymoon in a hydropathic establishment, where there would be plenty of fellow-sufferers with whom to compare notes. At present he was clad in a heavy tweed suit, and wore a thickly lined fur coat, galoshes on his feet, and a roll of red flannel round his throat. "How do you do, Mr. Marson?" he said, in a thin, irritable voice, as he shook hands. "I hope you are well. You don't look it. Your hand is moist; that's a bad sign. Dry? Yes, mine is dry. I'm afraid it's fever. Diseases are so subtle. Miss Varlins, you look healthy. Florry, my dearest, what a thin dress for this weather!" "Oh, it's all right, Mr. Spolger." "Jackson," he interpolated. "It's all right, Jackson," said Florry, gaily. "I'm quite healthy." "Ah, yes, now," replied Mr. Spolger, darkly, sitting down; "but that thin dress means a chill. It might settle on the lungs, and you might be in your coffin before you know where you are." "Nonsense, man," said Marson, in a hearty voice; "the room is quite warm. Won't you take off that heavy coat?"