THE MIRACLE MAN. Frank L. Packard

"He don't count! He'll have bats in his belfry anyway, and if he ain't he'll go off his chump for fair getting stuck on himself when he sees the stunt he'll think he's done. He'll be looking for the wings between his shoulder blades, and hunting for the halo around his head."

      "Harry is waking up," observed Doc Madison affably. "That's about the idea, Helena. I haven't seen the Patriarch yet, but I don't imagine from his description that it'll be very hard to make him believe in himself. He doesn't stand for anything—we don't deal him any cards—he's just the kitty that circles around with the jackpots while we annex the chips."

      Doc Madison reached into his vest pocket, took out a penknife whose handle was gold-chased, opened it, and very carefully cut the article he had read from the paper.

      "Flopper," said he, "you've heard of gold bonds, haven't you?"

      The Flopper's eyes gleamed an eloquent response.

      "Only you've never had any, eh?" supplied Doc Madison.

      "Where'd I get 'em?" inquired the Flopper, with some bitterness.

      "Right here," smiled Doc Madison, handing him the clipping. "Here's a trainload and a bank vault full of them combined. Put it away, Flopper, and don't lose it. Lose anything you've got first—lose your life. It's worth a private car to you with a buffet full of fizz, and Sambo to wait on you for the rest of your life. Get that? Don't lose it!"

      The Flopper tucked the clipping into the mysterious recess of his shirt.

      "Say," he said earnestly, "if you say so, Doc, it'll be here when dey plant me."

      "All right, Flopper," nodded Doc Madison. "And now let's get down to cases. I've been able to pay my club dues lately, and there's money enough on deck to buy the costumes and put the show on the road. I start for Needley as soon as I can get away. When I'm ready for the support, you three will hear from me—and in the meantime you lay low. Nothing doing—understand? You'll get all the lime-light you want before you're through, and it's just as well not to show up so familiar when they throw the spot on you that even the school kids will know the date of your birth, and the population will start in squabbling over the choice of reserved niches for you in the Hall of Fame. See?"

      The Flopper, Pale Face Harry and Helena nodded their heads with one accord.

      "Give us the whole lay, Doc," urged Pale Face Harry. "And give it to us quick."

      "Me mouth's waterin'," observed the Flopper, licking his lips again.

      Helena lighted another cigarette, and swung herself back to her perch on the head of the couch.

      Doc Madison surveyed the three with mingled admiration and delight.

      "The world is ours!" he murmured softly.

      "Oh, hurry up and give us the rest of it," purred Helena. "We know we're an all-star cast, all right."

      "Very good," said Doc Madison—and laughed. "Well then, the order of your stage cues will depend on circumstances and what turns up down there, but we'll start with the Flopper now. First of all, Flopper, you've got to have a name. What's your real name—what did they decorate you with at the baptismal font back in the dark ages?"

      The Flopper scrubbed at his very dirty chin with a very dirty thumb and forefinger.

      "I dunno," said the Flopper anxiously.

      "Well, never mind," said Doc Madison reassuringly. "Maybe you are blessed above most people—you can pick one out for yourself. What'll it be?"

      The Flopper's thumb and forefinger scratched desperately for a moment, then his face lighted with inspiration.

      "Swipe me!" said he excitedly. "I got it—Jimmy de Squirm."

      Doc Madison shook his head gravely.

      "No, Flopper, I'm afraid not," he said gently. "That's another weak point in your interpretation of the rôle, that I'll come to in a minute. We'll give you an Irish name by way of charity—it'll help to make your classical English sound like brogue. We'll call you Coogan—Michael Coogan—that lets you off with plain Mike in times of stress."

      "Swipe me!" said the Flopper, with perfect complacence.

      "Glad it pleases you," smiled Doc Madison, "Here's your lay, then. You've got to remember that you were born crooked and—"

      Helena giggled.

      "I didn't mean it"—Doc Madison's gray eyes twinkled. "You are waking up, too, Helena. I mean, Flopper, you've got to remember that you were born twisted up into the same shape you are in when you hit Needley. You come from—let's see—we'll have to have a big city where the next door neighbors pass each other with a vacant stare. Ever been in Chicago?"

      "Naw! Wot fer?" said the Flopper, with withering spontaneity. "Noo Yoik fer mine."

      "Well, all right—New York it is, then," agreed Doc Madison. "You're poor, but respectable—and that brings us to the other point. Before you go down there, Helena's going to start a little night-school with a grammar, and teach you to paddle along the fringe of the great American language so's you won't fall in and get wet all over every time you open your mouth."

      "My!" exclaimed Helena. "Won't that be nice!"

      "I hope so," said Doc Madison drily. "And don't run away with the idea that I'm joking about this—that goes. I don't expect to make a silver-tongued orator out of you, Flopper, and perhaps not even a purist—but I hope to eradicate a few minor touches of Bad Land vernacular from your vocabulary."

      "I've gotcher—swipe me!" grinned the Flopper. "Me at school! Say, wouldn't that put a smile on de maps of de harness bulls, an' de dips, an' de lags doin' spaces up de river!"

      "Quite so," admitted Doc Madison pleasantly.

      "You won't laugh when I get through with you," remarked Helena, her eyes on the curl of smoke from her cigarette.

      "There's just one more thing," went on Doc Madison, "and I'm through with you, Flopper. Don't come down there looking like a skate—that's too raw. Get new clothes and a shave—and keep shaved. And from the minute you buy your ticket, you keep your bones, or whatever a beneficent nature has given you in place of them, out of joint—see?"

      "I'm hip," declared the Flopper—and the dog-like admiration for Doc Madison burned in his eyes. "Say, Doc, youse are de—"

      "Never mind, Flopper," Madison cut in brightly. "It's getting late. Now, Harry, about you. You've got a name, I believe. Evans, isn't it? Yes—well, that will do. Now, don't kill yourself at it, but the more you work your dope needle overtime before you start, and the harder you cough when you first land there the better. We've got to have variety, you know. You're a physical wreck with the folks back home sending the casket and trimmings after you on the next train in care of the station agent."

      "I guess," coughed Pale Face Harry, with a sickly smile, "I look the part."

      "You certainly do," said Helena cheerfully, beating a tattoo with her heels on the end of the couch.

      Pale Face Harry scowled.

      "I ain't no artist with the paint," he sniffed.

      "I don't paint," said Helena sweetly. "It's rouge."

      "Are you through?" inquired Doc Madison patiently. "Because, if you are, I'll go on. When the train whistles for Needley, Harry, you put the soft pedal on the dope—that ought to help some. And then you begin to taper that cough off and become a cure—that's all."

      "I ain't like the Flopper," said Pale Face Harry ruefully. "I told you once I can't stop the hack, and I ask you again how'm I going to?"

      "Have faith in the Patriarch," suggested Helena innocently.

      "You close your trap!" exclaimed Pale Face Harry savagely; then, to Madison: "Go on, Doc—it's up to you."

      "No," said Doc Madison coolly, "it's up to you. You've got to try, and if