of whisky upon his breath or his person; for Kent had been very thoughtful
and very thorough. He had compelled his patient to crunch and swallow many
nauseous tablets of "whisky killer," and he had sprinkled his clothes
liberally with Jockey Club; Fleetwood, therefore, while he emanated odors
in plenty, carried about him none of the aroma properly belonging to
intoxication.

In ten minutes Kent was back, with a celluloid collar and two ties of
questionable taste. Manley just glanced at them, waved them away with
gloomy finality, and swore.

"They're just about the limit, and that's no dream," sympathized Kent, "but
they're clean, and they don't look like they'd been slept in for a month.
You've got to put 'em on--by George, I sized up the layout in both those
imitation stores, and I drew the highest in the deck. And for the Lord's
sake, get a move on. Here, I'll button it for you."

Behind Fleetwood's back, when collar and tie were in place, Kent grinned
and lowered an eyelid at Jim, who put his head in from the saloon to see
how far the sobering had progressed.

"You look fine!" he encouraged heartily. "That green-and-blue tie's just
what you need to set you off. And the collar sure is shiny and nice--your
girl will be plumb dazzled. She won't see anything wrong--believe _me_.
Now, run along and get married. Here, you better sneak out the back way; if
she happened to be looking out, she'd likely wonder what you were doing,
coming out of a saloon. Duck out past the coal shed and cut into the street
by Brinberg's. Tell her you're sick--got a sick headache. Your looks'll
swear it's the truth. Hike!" He opened the door and pushed Fleetwood out,
watched him out of sight around the corner of Brinberg's store, and turned