M.D., do you?"

"Call myself? I am. Regular degree from the Dayton Medical College." He
sleeked down his heavy hair with a complacent hand.

The physician snorted. "A diploma-mill. What did you pay for your M.D.?"

"One hundred dollars, and it's as good as your four-year P. and S.
course or any other, for my purposes," retorted the other, with
hardihood. "What's more, I'm a member of the American Academy of
Surgeons, with a special diploma from St. Luke's Hospital of Niles,
Michigan, and a certificate of fellowship in the National Medical
Scientific Fraternity. Pleased to meet a brother practitioner." The
sneer was as palpable as it was cynical.

"You've got all the fake trimmings, haven't you? Do those things pay?"

"Do they! Better than your game, I'll bet. Name your own fee, now, and
don't be afraid to make it strong."

"I'm not in regular practice. I'm a naval surgeon on leave. Give your
money to those poor devils you swindled to-night. I don't like the smell
of it."

"Oh, you can't rile me," returned the quack. "I don't blame you regulars
for getting sore when you see us fellows culling out coin from under
your very noses, that you can't touch."

"Cull it, and welcome. But don't try to pass it on to me."