Wrapped in filthy sheets in the corner of the caravan, Tad seemed to be breathing more and more slowly, as if he had found the one sure way out of his new body and was determined to take it. Eric Snarby sat watching over him while, in the next room, Doll Snarby blinked back tears and tried on different hats for the funeral. But then, three days after Tad had fallen ill, there was a knock on the door. It was Solo, the Indian from Dr. Aftexcludor’s caravan. “Blimey!” Doll exclaimed, staring at the tiny figure. “It’s the last of the blooming Mohicans. What do you want, dearie?” By way of an answer, Solo held out a curious bottle. It was circular in shape, fastened with a silver stopper. It was half filled with some pale green liquid. “What is it?” Doll demanded. Eric Snarby appeared at the door beside her. “Don’t touch it,” he muttered. “It’s some sort of foreign muck.” He waved at Solo. “Beat it!” he shouted. “Go on! Allez-vous! Push off!” “Medicine.”
