For the
rest, he was a large, mild, good-humored, pulpy individual, with a
fixed delusion that the human organism can absorb a quart of
alcoholic miscellany per day and be none the worse for it. The
major premise of his proposition was perfectly correct. He proved
it daily. The minor premise was an error. Bets were even in the
Toledo clubs as to whether delirium tremens or paresis would win the
event around young Mr. Hoff's kite-shaped race-track of a brain.
With his tastes the income of twenty-five thousand dollars per annum
which his father allowed him from the profits of "Dr. Hoff's
Catarrh-Killer," proved sadly insufficient to his needs. He
mentioned this fact to his father, so Average Jones' information
ran, early in April, and suggested an increase, only to be refused
with some acerbity.
"Oh, very well," said he, "I'll go and make it myself."
The amazement inspired in Doctor Hoff's mind by this pronouncement
was augmented in the next few days by the fact that Roderick was
very busy about town in his motor-car, and was changed to vivid
alarm immediately thereafter by the young man's disappearance.
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