There's no fool as an old fool," said Bebeef a half hour later, restored to consciousness and some comfort by a formula taken from his own book of cures. He had refused bed rest and was even now setting his laboratory in the barn loft back to order. The immense room was filled with even more tubes, jars, and bottles than his store in Manhattan. A long table ran through the center of the room, and a large cabinet of fancy walnut trays sat beneath a triangular window at the far end of the room. A jar of healing salts sat open on the middle rung, having been used to take some of the sting from the burns. "Naturally, I should have suspected something was amiss when the package arrived. But I have such a contempt for these blasted stones and their superstitions. People look everywhere for cures these days, instead of consulting with those who have studied the body and its humors scientifically." "I am sorry about your hands," said Jake. "But according to your notes, there was no other way to destroy the gum." "Couldn't be helped," said the old man almost cheerfully.
