After raking over my grandfathers again and
bringing the family history down by stages to the very moment I was
shown into his office he said he should have to ask me to undergo a
thorough physical--! But I was tired of being slapped and punched and
breathed on and prodded, and was bold enough to refuse point-blank. I'd
rather have the insomnia! We worked up quite a fuss about it, for there
was something tenacious in the fellow, for all his mild, kind, gentle
ways; and I had all I could do to get off by pleading press of
business. But I wasn't to escape scot-free. Medical science had to get
even somehow. He compromised by stinging my eye out with belladonna.
Have _you_ ever had belladonna squirted in _your_ eye? Well, don't.
He was sitting at the table, writing out some cabalistic wiggles that
stood for bromide of potassium, when I remarked casually that it was
strange how well I could always sleep in Colorado.
He laid down the pen with a sigh.
"A wonderful state--Colorado," I observed.
"To me it's the land of memories," he said.
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