"'You ain't going, doc?' says the Mayor with a howl. 'You ain't going
away and leave me to die with this--superfluity of the clapboards, are
you?'

"'Common humanity, Dr. Whoa-ha,' says Mr. Biddle, 'ought to prevent
your deserting a fellow-human in distress.'

"'Dr. Waugh-hoo, when you get through plowing,' says I. And then I
walks back to the bed and throws back my long hair.

"'Mr. Mayor,' says I, 'there is only one hope for you. Drugs will do
you no good. But there is another power higher yet, although drugs are
high enough,' says I.

"'And what is that?' says he.

"'Scientific demonstrations,' says I. 'The triumph of mind over
sarsaparilla. The belief that there is no pain and sickness except
what is produced when we ain't feeling well. Declare yourself in
arrears. Demonstrate.'

"'What is this paraphernalia you speak of, Doc?' says the Mayor. 'You
ain't a Socialist, are you?'

"'I am speaking,' says I, 'of the great doctrine of psychic
financiering--of the enlightened school of long-distance,
sub-conscientious treatment of fallacies and meningitis--of that
wonderful in-door sport known as personal magnetism.'

"'Can you work it, doc?' asks the Mayor.