"High-pitch?"

"High-pitching," explained the quack, "is our term for the talk, the
patter. You can sell sugar pills to raise the dead with a good-enough
high-pitch. I've done it myself--pretty near. With a voice like mine,
it's a shame to drop it. But I'm getting tired. And Boyee ought to have
schooling. So, I'll settle down and try a regular proprietary trade with
the Mixture and some other stuff I've got. I guess I can make printer's
ink do the work. And there's millions in it if you once get a start.
More than you can say of regular practice. I tried that, too, before I
took up itinerating." He grinned. "A midge couldn't have lived on my
receipts. By the way," he added, becoming grave, "what was your game in
cutting in on my 'spiel'?"

"Just curiosity."

"You ain't a government agent or a medical society investigator?"

The physician pulled out a card and handed it over. It read, "Mark
Elliot, Surgeon, U.S.N."

"Don't lose any sleep over me," he advised, then went to open the outer
door, in response to a knock.

A spectacled young man appeared. "They told me Professor Certain was
here," he said.

"What is it?" asked the quack.

"About that stabbing. I'm the editor of the weekly 'Palladium.'"