By mistake, a large dose of camphorated dover's powders which lay on the table was substituted for the lobelia of Dr. S., which with the warm liquid applied to the skin, checked the fever, and, contrary to the hope and expectation of Dr. S., the following morning found his patient in a fine perspiration, and the neighboring physician arriving, he was soon placed in a condition of safety. Notwithstanding Dr. S. told some friends of the joke,--for the worst have their friends, you know,--he was known to have prescribed for Dr. B., his sworn enemy; and as the patient was pronounced convalescent, S. received all the credit, and forthwith his services were in great demand. Day and night he rode, till, by the time Dr. B. got out, he was completely exhausted! He became alarmed lest he should take the fever. Such fellows are ever cowards when anything ails their precious selves. He actually became feverish with fear and excitement, and took his bed--and his emetic. He took either an overdose, or not enough, and for hours remained in the greatest distress. Finally, as a _dernier resort_, his wife sent for Dr. B.! Now came his turn to avenge the insult of the painting by poke-berries, which stain was yet scarcely removed from the skin of the old doctor. "I'll give him a dose; I'll put my mark on him--one that milk and water, or soap, cannot remove. O, I'll be avenged!" exclaimed Dr. B., as he mounted his gig, and drove to Dr. S. "O doctor, doctor! I am in fearful distress. Can you help me? Will I die?" whined S., on beholding his opponent. "No; not such good news. Those born to hang don't die in their beds. But you are very sick, and must abide my directions." "Yes, yes. Thanks, doctor. This blamed lobelia is killing me, though." "Then take this." And Dr. B. administered a half tea-spoonful of ipecac, to bring up the lobelia. So far was good. "Now a basin of water and a sponge," said Dr. B., which being procured, he seemed to examine for a moment very curiously; then ordered the face, neck, arms, and hands of the patient bathed well with the fluid. On the following morning Dr. B. was sent for, post haste, with the cheering message that "mortification had set in, and his patient was dying." Off posted the doctor, calling several neighbors, _en route_, who thronged the apartment of the invalid doctor in speechless astonishment. [Illustration: CURIOUS EFFECT OF A FEVER.] "I'm dying, Dr. B.; O, I'm dying," groaned S., rolling to and fro on his bed. "No, you are not. I told you before, no such good news. Your fever is all gone. You are scared--that's what's the matter," replied Dr. B. "But look, just look at the color of my skin,--all mortifying," said S. "O, no; that is merely dyed with _nitrate of silver_. It's much better than poke-berries--much better," repeated Dr. B.