d in the St. Louis papers an advertisement to the
effect that Dr. von Ingenhoff, the well-known German physician, who had
spent two years on the Plains acquiring a knowledge of Indian medicine,
was prepared to treat all diseases by vegetable remedies alone. Dr. von
Ingenhoff would remain in St. Louis for two weeks, and was to be found
at the Grayson House every day from ten until two o'clock.

To my delight, I got two patients the first day. The next I had twice as
many, when at once I hired two connecting rooms, and made a very useful
arrangement, which I may describe dramatically in the following way:

There being two or three patients waiting while I finished my cigar and
morning julep, enters a respectable-looking old gentleman who inquires
briskly of the patients if this is really Dr. von Ingenhoff's. He is
told it is. My friend was apt to overact his part. I had often occasion
to ask him to be less positive.

"Ah," says he, "I shall be delighted to see the doctor. Five years ago
I was scalped on the Plains, and now"--exhibiting a well-covered
head--"you see what the doctor did for me. 'T isn't any wonder I've come
fifty miles to see him. Any of you been scalped, gentlemen?"

To none of them had this misfortune arrived as yet; but, like most folks
in the lower ranks of life and some in the upper ones, it was pleasant
to find a genial person who would listen to their account of their own
symptoms.

Presently, after hearing enough, the old gentleman pulls out a large
watch. "Bless me! it's late. I must call again. May I trouble you, sir,
to say to the doctor that his old friend called to see him and will drop
in again to-morrow? Don't forget: Governor Brown of Arkansas." A moment
later the governor visited me by a side door, with his account of the
symptoms of my patients.

Enter a tall Hoosier, the governor having retired. "Now, doc," says
the Hoosier, "I've been handled awful these two years back." "Stop!" I
exclaimed. "Open your eyes. There, now, let me see," taking his pulse
as I speak. "Ah, you've a pain there, and there, and you can't sleep;
cocktails don't agree any longer. Weren't you bit by a dog two years
ago?" "I was," says the Hoosier, in amazement. "Sir," I reply, "you have
chronic hydrophobia. It's the water in the cocktails that disagrees
with you. My bitters will cure you in a week, sir. No more whisky--drink
milk."

The astonishment of my patient at these accurate revelations may be
imagined.