Free Jingo Django by Sid Fleischman

had been out in the rain. Dr. Custis took his pulse, gazing at a heavy turnip watch that I was certain had stopped running. He thumped the chest and raised an eyelid and then announced his medical opinion.
    â€œThe man’s sick.”
    â€œI know that, sir,” I said.
    â€œHe’s feverish.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œAnd sweatin’ like a mule.”
    â€œI can see that, sir,” I said anxiously. “But what’s he got?”
    â€œThe ague, if I ain’t mistaken.”
    â€œYou said before it was bilious fever.”
    â€œDid I? Well, it’s one or the other, that’s for certain. Unless it’s congestive fever.”
    I stared at him, full of mistrust and misgiving. “Can’t you cipher the difference?”
    â€œIt don’t hardly matter. The cure’s the same — I’ll have to leech him.”
    â€œLeech him?”
    â€œDraw off the bad blood. My, ain’t he weak? He couldn’t pull a hen off the roost. Now you trot down the hall to my pharmacy. Second door on the right. You’ll find a jar of leeches.”
    â€œYou sure you can get him well?”
    â€œHe’ll be fine as silk, and a little finer. Don’t worry yourself. Fetch the bloodsuckers.”
    I took a deep breath and sorely hoped the man knew what he was about. I found the leeches in a large jar of water. They looked like a swarm of yellowish-brown slugs.
    When I returned I found Dr. Custis examining the contents of Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones’ money pouch. He met my gaze with a snort and a smile. “A man can’t be too careful taking in strangers,” he said. “I felt it incumbent upon me, you might say, to inventory your gentleman’s ability to pay for his keep. I regret to tell you the cure may take two or three weeks.”
    â€œYou heard me say we had the cash money,” I answered, considerably ruffled.
    â€œI do recall, now that you mention it. By heckity, you did indeed.”
    I set down the jar of leeches and took possession of the money pouch. Dr. Custis was going to bear close attention and I didn’t look forward to two or three weeks under the same roof. I wished I had kept going on the road back to Natchez. But when I looked at my friend lying as red as a steamed lobster I knew the trip would have been too much for him.
    The doctor dipped his hand into the jar and began applying leeches to Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones’ chest. They must have been about an inch long, and once they sank their teeth in they stopped crawling about.
    â€œYou sure that’s the proper treatment?” I muttered.
    â€œNothin’ improves the health quicker’n the Hirudo medicinalis. That’s Latin. Ravenous little varmints, ain’t they? Look at ’em gorge.”
    â€œI’d best water the horses,” I said, turning away. I was glad to leave the sickroom. It pained me to see Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones reduced to a state of helplessness, with bloodsucking worms feasting on him.
    I unhitched the horses and found a water trough out back. Dr. Custis did know two words of Latin, I told myself, and that was better than none.
    I wanted to stay outside. I tied the horses in the shade of a chinaberry tree and stood with them a long while. I was dreadfully afraid for Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones. Leeches or no leeches he might fever up and die. I tried to push the thought out of my head, but tears shot to my eyes. That took me by enormous surprise. I didn’t know I cared that much about anyone. But Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones was my friend. I took a deep breath and wiped my eyes and tried to watch a flock of birds frolicking about over the river.
    After about an hour I returned to the house. The leeches had swelled up as fat as radishes.
    Dr. Custis gave a snort of satisfaction. “Looks better already, don’t he?”
    He didn’t look that way to me.
    â€œHe’s been mumbling all nature of interesting things.