Although I had no reason to
doubt that the general result of this practice was beneficial, yet,
as the death of a consumptive curate followed the addition of a
strong mercurial lotion to his expectorant, my father concluded to
withdraw me from the profession and send me to school.
Grubbins, the schoolmaster, was a tyrant, and it was not long
before my impetuous and self-willed nature rebelled against his
authority. I soon began to form plans of revenge. In this I was
assisted by Tom Snaffle,--a schoolfellow. One day Tom suggested:--
"Suppose we blow him up. I've got two pounds of powder!"
"No, that's too noisy," I replied.
Tom was silent for a minute, and again spoke:--
"You remember how you flattened out the curate, Pills! Couldn't
you give Grubbins something--something to make him leathery sick--
eh?"
A flash of inspiration crossed my mind. I went to the shop of the
village apothecary. He knew me; I had often purchased vitriol,
which I poured into Grubbins's inkstand to corrode his pens and
burn up his coat-tail, on which he was in the habit of wiping them.
I boldly asked for an ounce of chloroform. The young apothecary
winked and handed me the bottle.
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