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alilli, who threw knives, and a man called Professor Jones, who played the banjo. Doc Marlowe would come out after the entertainment and harangue the crowd and sell bottles of medicine for all kinds of ailments. I found out all this about him gradually, toward the last, and after he died. When I first knew him, he represented the Wild West to me, and there was nobody I admired so much.

roprietor of a concession at Coney Island, a saloon-keeper; but in his fifties he had travelled around with a tent-show troupe made up of a Mexican named Chick

arlowe was a medicine-show man. He had been a lot of other things, too: a circus man, the p

ast difference in our ages and there was a vaster difference in our backgrounds. Doc M

I was too young to be other than awed and puzzled by Doc Marlowe when I knew him. I was only sixteen when he died. He was sixty-seven. There was that v

move before he "treated" them. His patients were day labourers, wives of streetcar conductors and people like that. Sometimes they would shout and weep after Doc had massaged them, and several got up and walked around who hadn't been able to walk before. One man hadn't turned his head to either side for seven years before Doc so**ed him with Blackhawk.

d bothered her for thirty years. I used to see people whom Doc had massaged with Blackhawk Liniment move arms and legs that they hadn't been able to

y would sometimes have to "trust" him for weeks at a time. She didn't mind, because his liniment had taken a bad kink out of her right limb that ha

ckhawk Liniment when he settled in Columbus. Doc didn't always sell enough of it to pay for his bed and board, and old Mrs, Willoughb

Doc Marlowe had given up the road when I knew him, but he still dealt in what he called "medicines". His stock in trade was a liniment that he had called Snake Oil when he travelled around. He changed the name to Bla