"I _am_ not a specialist," he said.
"I just ketch the drift, appropriate the kernel, _and_ let the rest
slide."
He could do anything, it really seemed, from shoeing a mule to
conducting a camp-meeting; he was a capital chemist, a very sound
surgeon, a fair judge of horseflesh, a first class euchre player,
and a pleasing baritone. When occasion demanded he could occupy a
pulpit. He had invented a cork-screw which brought him in a small
revenue; and he was now engaged in the translation of a Polish work
on the "Application of Hydrocyanic Acid to the Cure of Leprosy."
Still, we reached New York without having got any nearer our goal,
as regarded Dr. Quackenboss. He came to bid us good-bye at the quay,
with that sphinx-like smile still playing upon his features. Charles
clutched the dispatch-box with one hand, and Mrs. Quackenboss's
little palm with the other.
"_Don't_ tell us," he said, "this is good-bye--for ever!" And his
voice quite faltered.
"I guess so, Mr. Porter," the pretty American replied, with a
telling glance. "What hotel do you patronise?"
"The Murray Hill," Charles responded.
"Oh my, ain't that odd?" Mrs. Quackenboss echoed. "The Murray Hill!
Why, that's just where we're going too, Elihu!"
The upshot of which was that Charles persuaded them, before
returning to Kentucky, to diverge for a few days with us to Lake
George and Lake Champlain, where he hoped to over-persuade the
recalcitrant doctor.
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