Charles Beadle

“ The doctor held the pod in one hand and stared at the moonlit glade.
"If only I could think what that reminds me of, I might get a clue. I've half a mind to try. Have you any mustard for an emetic?"
"Don't be crazy, Doc! And I haven't any, anyway. It may be anything; maybe the stuff some of these devils poison their arrows with. I know that's a vegetable poison of some sort and absolutely deadly."
"True!"
"Besides, if it takes a long time, the actual knowledge won't do us any good. I mean that's our only chance either way." ”

“ They—they don't give the poor devil a chance to die. The stuff of the pod is thrust down his throat an' then—what I described. But what's the scheme? Shove it in the beer an' poison the swine? My hairy aunt!" Dukely leaped to his feet with a yell. "You've got it, by God, old man!"
"Wait a minute," said the doctor quietly. "Not so fast."
"By God. I feel alive once more! We must do it, Doc. That'll fix them."
"That's the—sit down, Dukely. The point is: will it fix 'em? How do we know what poison it is? What quantity is required to produce the desired effect?" ”

“ Oh, it must."
"Desire has no effect on organic matter, my friend. Um. Um. Haven't got any animals around here to experiment on?"
"Not a thing. They bring me food every morning: fowls and sometimes goats but always ready killed." ”