My American friend sent me my translation.

His name was Fleming and he was a poor Scottish farmer. One day, crawling on his poor field so that his family did not die of hunger, he heard a scream coming from the swamp. The farmer quickly abandoned this dull business and ran to see – who is screaming. A boy who drowned in dirt. The farmer saved the poor.

And the next day a luxurious carriage rushed to his barracks and from there went out to the dirty courtyard a fashionably dressed aristocrat for those years and presented himself as the father of the saved boy.

I want to pay you for saving my son’s life! Paphos stated
This noble man.
Of course, the poor but proud Scottish rejects the fee no less pathetically. At this point, the curious nose of the Scottish man is emerging from the cottage.

Is it your son? Ask the aristocrat.
“Yes,” replied the proud poor farmer.
Here is the way out! A clever Englishman, rubbing his fingers, proposes to give a farmer’s son an education no worse than his own. This was resolved.

The farmer’s son studied at the best medical school of his time.
In London and now we are known as Sir Alexander Fleming, who invented penicillin. Do you think that’s all? It is not the end.

The son of the aristocrat so successfully pulled out of the swamp, years later fell with pneumonia. Guess what saved his life... Well, penicillin. Do you want to know the name of the aristocrat? Lord Randolph Churchill, his son
Sir Winston Churchill.