"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?"