as though your faces pained you! What's the matter with you? You're
bright enough ordinarily, Helena, and, Harry, you're no dub--what's the
matter with you? Can't you see it--can't you see it! Why, it's sticking
out a mile--it's _waiting_ for us! The whole plant's there and all we've
got to do is get steam under the boilers. We'll have 'em coming for the
cure from every State in the Union, and begging us to let them throw
their diamond tiaras at us for a look-in at the shrine. Don't you see
it--can't you get it--can't you _get_ it!"

Helena bent suddenly over Doc Madison's shoulder, her eyes opening wide
with dawning comprehension.

"The cure?" she breathed.

"Sure--the cure," said Doc Madison earnestly. "The new cult--that's us.
Get the people talking, show 'em something, and you'll have to put up
fences and 'keep off the grass' signs to stop the lame and the halt and
the blind and the neurasthenics from crowding and suffocating to death
for want of air. We'll start a shrine down there that'll be a winner,
and the railroads will be running excursion-rate pilgrimages inside of
two months."

Pale Face Harry's chair creaked, as, like the Flopper, he now crowded it
in toward the table.

"I get you!" said he feverishly. "I get you! I've read about them
shrines--only you gotter have churches, and a carload of crutches, and
that sort of thing laying around."

Doc Madison smiled pleasantly.