The Clarion | Page 6

sort of thing."
"To tell you the truth," said the other gloomily, "I was going to quit at
the end of this year, anyway. But I guess this ends it now. Accidents
like this hurt business. I guess this closes my tour."
"Is the game playing out?"
"Not exactly! Do you know what I took out of this town last night? One
hundred and ten good dollars. And to-morrow's consultation is good for
fifty more. That 'spiel' of mine is the best high-pitch in the business."
"High-pitch?"
"High-pitching," explained the quack, "is our term for the talk, the
patter. You can sell sugar pills to raise the dead with a good-enough
high-pitch. I've done it myself--pretty near. With a voice like mine, it's
a shame to drop it. But I'm getting tired. And Boyee ought to have
schooling. So, I'll settle down and try a regular proprietary trade with
the Mixture and some other stuff I've got. I guess I can make printer's
ink do the work. And there's millions in it if you once get a start. More
than you can say of regular practice. I tried that, too, before I took up
itinerating." He grinned. "A midge couldn't have lived on my receipts.

By the way," he added, becoming grave, "what was your game in
cutting in on my 'spiel'?"
"Just curiosity."
"You ain't a government agent or a medical society investigator?"
The physician pulled out a card and handed it over. It read, "Mark
Elliot, Surgeon, U.S.N."
"Don't lose any sleep over me," he advised, then went to open the outer
door, in response to a knock.
A spectacled young man appeared. "They told me Professor Certain
was here," he said.
"What is it?" asked the quack.
"About that stabbing. I'm the editor of the weekly 'Palladium.'"
"Glad to see you, Mr. Editor. Always glad to see the Press. Of course
you won't print anything about this affair?"
The visitor blinked. "You wouldn't hardly expect me to kill the story."
"Not? Does anybody else but me give you page ads.?"
"Well, of course, we try to favor our advertisers," said the spectacled
one nervously.
"That's business! I'll be coming around again next year, if this thing is
handled right, and I think my increased business might warrant a
double page, then."
"But the paper will have to carry something about it. Too many folks
saw it happen."
"Just say that a crazy man tried to interrupt the lecture of Professor
Andrew Leon Certain, the distinguished medical savant, and was

locked up by the authorities."
"But the knifing. How is the boy?"
"Somebody's been giving you the wrong tip. There wasn't any knife,"
replied the Professor with a wink. "You may send me two hundred and
fifty copies of the paper. And, by the way, do what you can to get that
poor lunatic off easy, and I'll square the bills--with commission."
"I'll see the Justice first thing in the morning," said the editor with
enthusiasm. "Much obliged, Professor Certain. And the article will be
all right. I'll show you a proof. It mightn't be a bad notion for you to
drop in at the jail with me, and see Neal, the man that stab--that
interrupted the meeting, before he gets talking with any one else."
"So it mightn't. But what about my leaving, now?" Professor Certain
asked of the physician.
"Go ahead. I'll keep watch."
Shortly after the itinerant had gone out with the exponent of free and
untrammeled journalism, the boy awoke and looked about with fevered
anxiety for his father. The little nurse was beside him at once.
"You mustn't wiggle around," she commanded. "Do you want a drink?"
Gratefully he drank the water which she held to his lips.
"Where's my Dad?" he asked.
"He's gone out. He'll come back pretty soon. Lie down."
He sank back, fixing his eyes upon her. "Will you stay with me till he
comes?"
She nodded. "Does it hurt you much?" Her cool and tiny fingers
touched his forehead, soothingly. "You're very hot. I think you've got a
little fever."

"Don't take your hand away." His eyes closed, but presently opened
again. "I think you're very pretty," he said shyly.
"Do you? I like to have people think I'm pretty. Uncle Guardy scolds
me for it. Not really, you know, but just pretending. He says I'm vain."
"Is that your uncle, the gentleman that fixed my arm?"
"Yes. I call him Uncle Guardy because he's my guardian, too."
"I like him. He looks good. But I like you better. I like you a lot."
"Everybody does," replied the girl with dimpling complacency. "They
can't help it. It's because I'm me!"
For a moment he brooded. "Am I going to die?" he asked quite
suddenly.
"Die? Of course not."
"Would you be