“Rheumatism in the shoulder.” “Inflammatory?” “Was. The inflammation has gone down.” The burglar stood for a moment or two, holding his gun on the afflicted one. He glanced at the plunder on the dresser and then, with a half-embarrassed air, back at the man in the bed. Then he, too, made a sudden grimace. “Don’t stand there making faces,” snapped the citizen, bad-humouredly. “If you’ve come to burgle why don’t you do it? There’s some stuff lying around.” “’Scuse me,” said the burglar, with a grin; “but it just socked me one, too. It’s good for you that rheumatism and me happens to be old pals. I got it in my left arm, too. Most anybody but me would have popped you when you wouldn’t hoist that left claw of yours.” “How long have you had it?” inquired the citizen. “Four years. I guess that ain’t all. Once you’ve got it, it’s you for a rheumatic life—that’s my judgment.” “Ever try rattlesnake oil?” asked the citizen, interestedly. “Gallons,” said the burglar. “If all the snakes I’ve used the oil of was strung out in a row they’d reach eight times as far as Saturn, and the rattles could be heard at Valparaiso, Indiana, and back.” “Some use Chiselum’s Pills,” remarked the citizen. “Fudge!” said the burglar. “Took ’em five months. No good. I had some relief the year I tried Finkelham’s Extract, Balm of Gilead poultices and Potts’s Pain Pulverizer; but I think it was the buckeye I carried in my pocket what done the trick.” “Is yours worse in the morning or at night?” asked the citizen. “Night,” said the burglar; “just when I’m busiest. Say, take down that arm of yours—I guess you won’t—Say! did you ever try Blickerstaff’s Blood Builder?” “I never did. Does yours come in paroxysms or is it a steady pain?” The burglar sat down on the foot of the bed and rested his gun on his crossed knee. “It jumps,” said he. “It strikes me when I ain’t looking for it. I had to give up second-story work because I got stuck sometimes half-way up. Tell you what—I don’t believe the bloomin’ doctors know what is good for it.” “Same here. I’ve spent a thousand dollars without getting any relief. Yours swell any?” “Of mornings. And when it’s goin’ to rain—great Christopher!” “Me, too,” said the citizen. “I can tell when a streak of humidity the size of a table-cloth starts from Florida on its way to New York. And if I pass a theatre where there’s an ‘East Lynne’ matinee going on, the moisture starts my left arm jumping like a toothache.” “It’s undiluted—hades!” said the burglar. “You’re dead right,” said the citizen. The burglar looked down at his pistol and thrust it into his pocket with an awkward attempt at ease. “Say, old man,” he said, constrainedly, “ever try opodeldoc?” “Slop!” said the citizen angrily. “Might as well rub on restaurant butter.”