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