BOTTLE, AND A GHOST

All day John Brown, ex-clergyman and quack-doctor, harangued the people
of Chaudiere from his gaily-painted wagon. He had the perfect gift
of the charlatan, and he had discovered his metier. Inclined to the
picturesque by nature, melodramatic and empirical, his earlier career
had been the due fruit of habit and education. As a dabbler in mines
he had been out of his element. He lacked the necessary reticence, and
arsenic had not availed him, though it had tempted Billy Wantage to
forgery; and because Billy hid himself behind the dismal opportunity of
silence, had ruined the name of a dead man called Charley Steele. Since
Charley's death John Brown had never seen Billy: he had left the town
one woful day an hour after Billy had told him of the discovery Charley
had made. From a far corner of the country he had read the story of
Charley's death; of the futile trial of the river-drivers afterwards,
ending in acquittal, and the subsequent discovery of the theft of the
widows' and orphans' trust-moneys.

On this St. Jean Baptiste's day he was thinking of anything and
everything else but Charley Steele. Nothing could have been a better
advertisement for him than the perilous incident at the Red Ravine.
Falling backwards when the horse suddenly bolted, his head had struck
the medicine-chest, and he had lain insensible till brought back to
consciousness by the good offices of the voluble Colonel. He had not,
therefore, seen Charley. It was like him that his sense of gratitude to
the unknown tailor should be presently lost in exploiting the interest
he created in the parish. His piebald horse, his white "plug" hat,
his gaily painted wagon, his flamboyant manner, and, above all, the
marvellous tale of his escape from death, were more exciting to
the people of Chaudiere than the militia, the dancing-bears, the
shooting-galleries, or the boat-races. He could sing extremely well--had
he not trained his own choir when he was a parson? had not Billy
approved his comic songs?--and these comic songs, now sandwiched between
his cures and his sales, created much laughter. He cured headaches,
toothaches, rheumatism, and all sorts of local ailments "with despatch."
He miraculously juggled away pains by what he called his Pain Paint, and
he stopped a cough by a laugh and a dose of his Golden Pectoral. In the
exuberance of trade, which steadily increased till sundown, he gave no
thought to the tailor, to whom, however, h