Free Jingo Django by Sid Fleischman Page A

Pinheads and postholes.” The doctor’s eyes began to skin me. “You know anything about that?”
    â€œNo, sir,” I said quickly. “That’s just his name he’s trying to tell you.”
    â€œHis name?”
    â€œYes, sir.” My wits raced along at a howling clip. “Phineas Portroyal.”
    â€œSounded more like pinheads and postholes.”
    â€œYou must have listened wrong,” I answered, as innocently as I could. It was fearsome to think that Dr. Custis might discover I was carrying a treasure map engraved on the head of a pin. “His name’s Phineas Portroyal.”
    â€œOf course, he ain’t entirely responsible yet. But I’ve known men to speak more sense out of their minds than in.”
    â€œThat’s beyond my measure,” I answered, and decided I was going to sleep in the same room and try to keep Dr. Custis, with his big ears, at a distance.
    He began removing the blood-swollen leeches. “If you plan to take your meals with me,” he said, “don’t expect anything fancy. I lean to corn bread and common doings.”
    Common doings, as I was to find out in the days ahead, was ham and bacon. And I found out that Dr. Custis was more interested in bottling his own brand of snake oil medicine than he was in mending the sick. He expected to make a fortune.
    I never saw any other patients or servants about the place. I got the feeling that folks in the area would rather see the undertaker than Dr. Custis.
    But when he switched from leeches to quinine I must confess that Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones began to improve — to Dr. Custis’ surprise, I believe. Still, there were days when the chills and fever returned, and there was nothing to do but worry.
    When he was in his right mind I told him that I had changed his name to Phineas Portroyal, which made him laugh. “One day I’ll find a name that really suits me,” he said.
    He apologized for babbling on about pins and treasure holes. But he had lost track of time and when I told him he had been laid up going on two weeks, he fell silent and gloomy.
    Then he said, “You jump on Sunflower and beat your way to Matamoros.”
    I stared at him. “No, sir,” I answered. “Partners ought to stick together.”
    â€œDon’t talk nonsense!” he snapped. “I’m telling you to go. It’s precious time lost.”
    â€œYou’re still so precious weak you couldn’t pull a hen off the roost,” I answered.
    In the end he wearied of arguing the matter. Meanwhile, I scraped down all the chimneys with a hoe, being careful to carry the money pouch and the pin in the flues with me. I wasn’t about to take any chances with Dr. Custis.
    He spent his days tinkering with his bottles and cure-all, and thinking up lies to print on the label. Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones grew stronger every day, it seemed, and by the end of the third week we were able to travel again.
    I never hitched up the coach with such uncommon joy. Until Dr. Custis presented his bill.
    â€œI trust you have made an error,” said Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones. “Surely your fee is not an outrageous $621!”
    â€œSurely it is, Mr. Portroyal,” the doctor replied. “Congestive fever, complicated by the ague, intermittent and bilious fever.”
    â€œYou nitwit,” snapped Mr. Portroyal. “They’re all the same. It was a common attack of malaria.”
    â€œA difference of medical opinion there may be, sir, but the bill remains $621.”
    â€œThe fact remains I won’t be robbed by a self-educated quack, sir.”
    â€œBy heckity! I won’t be insulted in my own house, Mr. Portroyal! I have only to send for the high sheriff and I shall collect through a court of law.”
    We could be delayed for months! Then a sudden way out jolted me like a thunderbolt — and I felt as smart as forty crickets.
    â€œDoctor Custis,