That evening our next door neighbor, Bud Taylor, came in and
advised me to take quinine and whiskey every time I felt a shooting
pain.
I took his advice, but at the end of the first hour the score was
98 to 37 in favor of the shooting pains, and the whiskey had such
an effect on the quinine that it made the germs jealous, so between
them they cooked up a little black man who advised me to chase Bud
out of the house, which I did by throwing medicine bottles at him.
That night the whiskey and quinine held a director's meeting with
the germs and then they wound up with a sort of Mardi Gras parade
through my system.
I was the goat!
When daylight broke I was a total wreck, and I swore that the next
person that said whiskey and quinine to me would get all his.
After breakfast another friend of ours, Jack Gibson, blew in, and
after he looked me over his weary eye fell on the decanter.
Then Jack smacked his lips and whispered that the best cure for the
grip was a glass of whiskey and quinine every time I felt chills
and fever, and he'd be glad to join me.
When loving hands picked Jack up at the bottom of the stairs he was
almost insulted, but he quieted down when my wife explained to him
that I was suffering not only from the grip but that I had also a
slight attack of jiu jitsu.
After weeks of study devoted to the subject I have come to the
conclusion that the only way to cure the grip is to stay sick until
you get better.
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