“Step up here, Mr. Brown.”

Mr. Brown, the supposed Doctor Simon whose horse Danny had attended, seated himself complacently in the witness chair and bowed to the jury in a professional manner.  He had, he told them, been a detective employed by the state board of health for over sixteen years.  It was his duty to go round and arrest people who pretended to be licensed practitioners of medicine and assumed to doctor other people and animals.  There were a lot of ’em, too; the jury would be surprised—­

Mr. Tutt objected to their surprise and it was stricken out by order of the court.

“I’ll strike out ’and there are a lot of ’em, too,’ if you say so, Mr. Tutt,” offered the court, smiling, but Mr. Tutt shook his head.

“No; let it stand!” said he significantly.  “Let it stand!”

“Well, anyway,” continued Mr. Brown, “this here defendant Lowry, as he calls himself, is well known—­”

Objected to and struck out.

“Well, this here defendant makes a practise—­”

“Strike it out!  What did he do?” snapped the octogenarian baboon on the bench.

“I’m tellin’ you, judge,” protested Brown vigorously.  “This here defendant—­”

“You’ve said that three times!” retorted the baboon.  “Get along, can’t you?  What did he do?”

“He treated my horse for spavin here in New York at 500 West 24th Street at my request on the twentieth of last March and I paid him five dollars.  He said he was a licensed veterinary and he gave me his card.  Here it is.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so before?” remarked the judge more amiably.  “Let me see the card.  All right!  Anything more, Mr. Hingman?”

But Mr. Hingman had long before this subsided into his chair and was emitting sounds like those from a saxophone.

“That is plain, simple testimony, Mr. Tutt,” remarked the judge.  “Go ahead and cross-examine.”

Ephraim Tutt slowly unjointed himself, the quintessence of affability, though Mr. Brown clearly held him under suspicion.

“How long have you earned your living, my dear sir, by going round arresting people?”

“Sixteen years.”

“Under what name—­your own?”

“I use any name I feel like.”

Mr. Tutt nodded appreciatively.

“Let us see, then.  You go about pretending to be somebody you are not?”

“Put it that way, if you choose.”

“And pretending to be what you are not?”

Mr. Brown eyed Mr. Tutt savagely.  “What do you mean by that?”

“Didn’t you tell this old gentleman beside me that you were a doctor of medicine but not a doctor of veterinary medicine—­and beg him to treat your horse for that reason?”

“Sure I did.  Certainly.”

“Well, are you a licensed medical practitioner?”

“Look here!  What’s that got to do with it?” snarled Mr. Brown, looking about for aid from the sleeping Hingman.