the outstretched hand was stayed. Then:--

"That's what I am. And all the others I can get. Can I sell _you_ a
bottle?"

Behind the suavity there was the impudence of the man who is a little
alarmed, and a little angry because of the alarm.

"Why, yes," said the other coolly. "Some day I might like to know what's
in the stuff."

"Hand up your cash then. And here you are--Doctor. It _is_ 'Doctor,'
ain't it?"

"You've guessed it," returned the stranger.

[Illustration: HELP AND CURE ARE AT THEIR BECK AND CALL.]

At once the platform peddler became the opportunist orator again.

"A fellow practitioner, in my audience, ladies and gentlemen; and doing
me the honor of purchasing my cure. Sir," the splendid voice rose and
soared as he addressed his newest client, "you follow the noblest of
callings. My friends, I would rather heal a people's ills than determine
their destinies."

Giving them a moment to absorb that noble sentiment, he passed on to his
next source of revenue: Dyspepsia. He enlarged and expatiated upon its
symptoms until his subjects could fairly feel the grilling at the pit of
their collective stomach. One by one they came forward, the yellow-eyed,