Fortunately, among the onlookers outside the door, there happened to be a scholar sitting nearby who was kind enough to fetch ink and brush for them. Once they had the writing materials, Peter Brooks triumphantly reached into his sleeve and pulled out a wad of paper that had been crumpled into something resembling pickled vegetables. He gave it a gentle shake, and paper scraps fluttered down everywhere...

"This can be called paper?!" Looking at the sheet full of holes, Peter Brooks was deeply frustrated. Damn it, there's a brush but no paper—where is he supposed to write? He really was at a loss.

Paul Brooks slapped his forehead in annoyance. "It's all my fault. I forgot to ask for some bamboo slips for the young master to write on." This family were farmers, after all, and wouldn't have the things scholars used. It wasn't impossible to make another trip, but Peter Brooks didn't have the leisure to wait any longer. He got up, walked to the corner of the room, and grabbed a long object. "We'll use this." It was a carrying pole.

"Young master, will this work?" Paul Brooks nearly fainted. Having grown up in the household, he had seen the old master use paper, bamboo slips, and even silk at times, but never a carrying pole. "It's fine, this will have to do." Peter Brooks picked up the pole that the family had set aside, motioned for Paul Brooks and the sick child's father to each hold one end, and, after a moment's thought, picked up the brush.

In Peter Brooks's memory, for a child with high fever and convulsions, the main thing was to stop the convulsions and reduce the fever. In this era, there were no fever suppositories, no phenobarbital, no aspirin. The only options were traditional Chinese medicine. Peter Brooks paused for a moment, and under the strange gazes of the crowd that had gathered from outside into the courtyard, he began to write boldly on the carrying pole. After just a few strokes, Peter Brooks was dumbfounded—the brush was stiff and rough, and he was pressing so hard it was almost like carving. There was another problem: although he could read traditional characters, that was from books. Writing them himself was a whole different challenge, especially since he had only learned simplified characters in school. If he wrote poorly, wouldn't people laugh at him?

Peter Brooks had a sudden idea and looked at the scholar who had lent them the writing materials.

"Brother, if I may—I've been bedridden these days and my hands are weak. Could you write for me?" Peter Brooks gave a warm smile and handed the brush to the scholar, who was flattered and quickly bowed to accept it. "Not at all, young master. Please dictate, and I will write for you."

Peter Brooks finally breathed a sigh of relief. Following his memory, he slowly recited the prescription, while the scholar wrote swiftly, without any of the struggle Peter Brooks had experienced. "One qian of cicada slough, one qian of uncaria, one qian of gardenia, stir-fried jujube seed..."

Peter Brooks dictated, the scholar wrote, and before long, three prescriptions were written on the shiny carrying pole. The first was the Anti-Convulsion Decoction, to prevent further convulsions; the second was Palace-Clearing Powder, to calm the nerves and dispel residual heat; the third was Heat-Clearing Powder. After they were written, Peter Brooks examined them carefully—hmm, traditional clerical script, quite proper. He was very satisfied, thanked the scholar, and told Paul Brooks to take the pole and hurry to the pharmacy to get the medicine.

This time, Paul Brooks agreed enthusiastically, proudly carrying this very unusual "prescription" as he hurried out of the house. Unfortunately, this was the Han dynasty—there was no alcohol for disinfection, probably not even strong liquor. So Peter Brooks could only instruct the family to use a wet cloth to wipe the child's forehead, armpits, and thighs for physical cooling.

Though the method was a bit crude, it was somewhat effective. At least the child's breathing became a little steadier. Peter Brooks held a wrapped cloth strip in his hand, closely monitoring the child's condition. If the child convulsed again, Peter Brooks would need to immediately put the cloth in the child's mouth to prevent him from biting his tongue.

After about the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, while Peter Brooks was closely observing the sick child, he heard a commotion and footsteps outside. He frowned—didn't these people know that noise was the last thing a patient needed at this time?

After handing the cloth roll to the child's mother with some instructions, Peter Brooks stepped out of the inner room and saw that the courtyard was already crowded with people. "Young master, you really made this old servant search everywhere for you!" A loud voice called out from the back of the crowd...

Chapter Twelve: An Old Acquaintance Again

It turned out that Steward Mason had also arrived. Hearing this voice, the onlookers naturally recognized the Head Steward Brooks who had served the former magistrate of Jiangyang for over ten years, and quickly made way, revealing the imposing figure of Steward Mason.

"Young master, you really made this old servant search everywhere. I happened to run into Paul Brooks on the way and learned you were here. Young master, you haven't recovered yet—how can you tire yourself out like this?" Steward Mason entered the courtyard, and upon seeing Peter Brooks come out to greet him, he finally relaxed a little. He strode up to Peter Brooks with a worried look. Who knows if the old fellow was deliberately making a scene—his voice was so loud that everyone in the courtyard turned their eyes to Peter Brooks.