The fog had already closed in on Monterey, and was now rolling, a white, billowy sea above, that soon shut out the blue breakers below. Once or twice in descending¹ the mountain Concho had overhung the cliff and looked down upon the curving horse-shoe of a bay below him,—distant yet many miles. Earlier in the afternoon he had seen the gilt² cross on the white-faced Mission flare³ in the sunlight, but now all was gone. By the time he reached the highway of the town it was quite dark, and he plunged⁴ into the first fonda at the wayside, and endeavored to forget his woes⁵ and his weariness in aguardiente. But Concho's head ached, and his back ached, and he was so generally distressed⁶ that he bethought him of a medico,—an American doctor,—lately come into the town, who had once treated Concho and his mule⁷ with apparently⁸ the same medicine, and after the same heroic fashion. Concho reasoned, not illogically, that if he were to be physicked at all he ought to get the worth of his money. The grotesque⁹ extravagance of life, of fruit and vegetables, in California was inconsistent with infinitesimal doses. In Concho's previous illness the doctor had given him a dozen 4 grain quinine powders.

 

The following day the grateful Mexican walked into the Doctor's office—cured. The Doctor was gratified until, on examination, it appeared that to save trouble, and because his memory was poor, Concho had taken all the powders in one dose. The Doctor shrugged¹⁰ his shoulders and—altered his practice.

 

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