“And I didn't get it outer advertisements, nor off of circulars. I got it outer my head, just by solid thinking,” continued Parker. “What was it, Cy?” said one unsophisticated and inexperienced sufferer. Instead of replying, Parker, like a true artist, knowing he had the ear of his audience, dramatically flashed a question upon them. “Did you ever hear of a Chinaman having dyspepsy?” “Never heard he had sabe enough to hev ANYTHING,” said a scorner. “No, but DID ye?” insisted Parker. “Well, no!” chorused the group. They were evidently struck with the fact. “Of course you didn't,” said Parker triumphantly. “'Cos they AIN'T. Well, gentlemen, it didn't seem to me the square thing that a pesky lot o' yellow-skinned heathens should be built different to a white man, and never know the tortur' that a Christian feels; and one day, arter dinner, when I was just a-lyin' flat down on the bank, squirmin', and clutching the short grass to keep from yellin', who should go by but that pizened See Yup, with a grin on his face. “'Mellican man plenty playee to him Joss after eatin',' sez he; 'but Chinaman smellee punk, allee same, and no hab got.' “I knew the slimy cuss was just purtendin' he thought I was prayin' to my Joss, but I was that weak I hadn't stren'th, boys, to heave a rock at him. Yet it gave me an idea.” “What was it?” they asked eagerly. “I went down to his shop the next day, when he was alone, and I was feeling mighty bad, and I got hold of his pigtail and I allowed I'd stuff it down his throat if he didn't tell me what he meant. Then he took a piece of punk and lit it, and put it under my nose, and, darn my skin, gentlemen, you migh'n't believe me, but in a minute I felt better, and after a whiff or two I was all right.” “Was it pow'ful strong, Cy?” asked the inexperienced one. “No,” said Parker, “and that's just what's got me. It was a sort o' dreamy, spicy smell, like a hot night. But as I couldn't go 'round 'mong you boys with a lighted piece o' punk in my hand, ez if I was settin' off Fourth of July firecrackers, I asked him if he couldn't fix me up suthin' in another shape that would be handier to use when I was took bad, and I'd reckon to pay him for it like ez I'd pay for any other patent medicine. So he fixed me up this.” He put his hand in his pocket, and drew out a small red paper which, when opened, disclosed a pink powder. It was gravely passed around the group. “Why, it smells and tastes like ginger,” said one. “It is only ginger!” said another scornfully. “Mebbe it is, and mebbe it isn't,” returned Cy Parker stoutly. “Mebbe ut's only my fancy. But if it's the sort o' stuff to bring on that fancy, and that fancy CURES me, it's all the same. I've got about two dollars' worth o' that fancy or that ginger, and I'm going to stick to it. You hear me!” And he carefully put it back in his pocket.