There was some murmuring among the men; for it was common knowledge that those who inoculated themselves with smallpox were supposed to physic themselves heavily, both up and down. As for Cap, he became noisy at once. “No reason? No reason? Nobody never heard of a doctor that set up a smallpox hospital without puking his classes when inoculated! Ain’t there a reason for it? Answer me that!”

“That’s so the classes won’t forget they’re sick,” Doc Means said. “How’s a doctor going to make a living if his patients ain’t aware of being sick? If you ain’t aware of being sick, you ain’t going to bother with a doctor, are you?” He sighed. “The trouble with a puke,” he added feebly, “is that it makes you feel sicker than what you are. What I say is, if you don’t feel sick, you ain’t sick.” He turned suddenly to Nathaniel. “How’s your side? How’s your headache?”

“Headache?” Nathaniel asked. He seemed surprised. “Headache? Why, it’s not as bad as it was.” He kneaded his side sheepishly. “Neither’s the pain. I guess maybe they’re gone.”

“That’s right,” Doc said. “You’d still have ’em if you’d tooken a few pukes.” He went tottering off; and in spite of Cap’s grumbling, we found ourselves heartened by Doc’s stubborn refusal to physic us.

In another day, however, Nathaniel’s symptoms came on in earnest, and those of some of the other men as well. Doc professed himself delighted at the symptoms and at once halted and fumbled in his smock until he found what he called his dowsing rod. It was a Y-shaped branch, and he held it by its two arms, gripping it tightly, its stem pointed straight upward. Holding it thus, he shambled aimlessly hither and yon, a living embodiment, it seemed to me, of futility and delusion. Suddenly the rod jerked violently downward, on which Doc threw it from him and angrily examined the welts on the palms of his hands.

“Some folks think there ain’t nothing in this dowsing rod business,” he said, “and every time I get me a mess of blisters finding water for ’em, I swear I’ll let the whole damned world go thirsty rather than use a rod to help a pack of unbelievers!”

He marked a spot with his heel. “Dig here,” he said. “There’s a big spring about three feet underground.”

We did as he ordered, and unearthed a spring of ice-cold water; so there was more in Doc’s dowsing rod than met the eye.