In time some predaceous bacillus, having eluded the "killer," carried off its inventor. His nostrum soon languished. To-day it is little heard of, but from the ashes of its glories has risen a mightier successor, Liquozone. Where twenty years ago the microbe reveled in publicity, to-day we talk of germs and bacteria; consequently Liquozone exploits itself as a germicide and bactericide. It dispenses with the red wine of the Radam concoction and relies on a weak solution of sulphuric and sulphurous acids, with an occasional trace of hydrochloric or hydrobromic acid. Mostly it is water, and this is what it "cures":

—all diseases that begin with fever—all inflammations—all catarrh—all contagious diseases—all the results of impure or poisoned blood. In nervous diseases Liquozone acts as a vitalizer, accomplishing what no drugs can do."

These diseases it conquers by destroying, in the human body, the germs which cause (or are alleged to cause) them. Such is Liquozone's claim.

Yet the Liquozone Company is not a patent medicine concern. We have their own word for it:

"We wish to state at the start that we are not patent medicine men, and their methods will not be employed by us.... Liquozone is too important a product for quackery."

The head and center of this non-patent medicine cure-all is Douglas Smith. Mr. Smith is by profession a promoter. He is credited with a keen vision for profits. Several years ago he ran on a worthy ex-piano dealer, a Canadian by the name of Powley (we shall meet him again, trailing clouds of glory in a splendid metamorphosis), who was selling with some success a mixture known as Powley's Liquefied Ozone. This was guaranteed to kill any disease germ known to science. Mr. Smith examined into the possibilities of the product, bought out Powley, moved the business to Chicago and organized it as the Liquid Ozone Company. Liquid air was then much in the public prints. Mr. Smith, with the intuition of genius, and something more than genius' contempt for limitations, proceeded to catch the public eye with this frank assertion: "Liquozone is liquid oxygen—that is all."

It is enough. That is, it would be enough if it were but true. Liquid oxygen doesn't exist above a temperature of 229 degrees below zero. One spoonful would freeze a man's tongue, teeth and throat to equal solidity before he ever had time to swallow. If he could, by any miracle, manage to get it down, the undertaker would have to put him on the stove to thaw him out sufficiently for a respectable burial. Unquestionably Liquozone, if it were liquid oxygen, would kill germs, but that wouldn't do the owner of the germs much good because he'd be dead before they had time to realize that the temperature was falling. That it would cost a good many dollars an ounce to make is, perhaps, beside the question. The object of the company was not to make money, but to succor the sick and suffering. They say so themselves in their advertising. For some reason, however, the business did not prosper as its new owner had expected. A wider appeal to the sick and suffering was needed. Claude C. Hopkins, formerly advertising manager for Dr. Shoop's Restorative (also a cure-all) and perhaps the ablest exponent of his specialty in the country, was brought into the concern and a record-breaking campaign was planned. This cost no little money, but the event proved it a good investment. President Smith's next move showed him to be the master of a silver tongue, for he persuaded the members of a very prominent law firm who were acting as the company's attorneys to take stock in the concern, and two of them to become directors. These gentlemen represent, in Chicago, something more than the high professional standing of their firm; they are prominent socially and forward in civic activities; in short, just the sort of people needed by President Smith to bulwark his dubious enterprise with assured respectability.