“Speak up so they can all hear you,” he encouraged her.

“Never hurt a bit,” the woman stammered.

Three more operations were conducted as expeditiously and as successfully.  The audience was evidently impressed.

“How does he do it?” whispered Bob.

“Cappers,” explained Baker briefly.  “He only fakes pulling a tooth.  Watch him next time and you’ll see that he doesn’t actually pull an ounce.”

“Suppose a real toothache comes up?”

“I think that is one now.  Watch him.”

A young ranchman was making his way up the steps that led to the stage.  His skin was tanned by long exposure to the California sun, and his cheek rounded into an unmistakable swelling.

“No fake about him,” commented Baker.

He seated himself in the chair.  Painless examined his jaw carefully.  He started back, both hands spread in expostulation.

“My dear friend!” he cried, “you can save that tooth!  It would be a crime to pull that tooth!  Come to my office at ten to-morrow morning and I will see what can be done.”  He turned to the audience and for ten minutes expounded the doctrine of modern dentistry as it stands for saving a tooth whenever possible.  Incidentally he had much to say as to his skill in filling and bridge work and the marvellous painlessness thereof.  The meeting broke up finally to the inspiring strains of a really good band.  Bob and his friend, standing near the door, watched the audience file out.  Some threw away their pink and blue tickets, but most stowed them carefully away.

“And every one that goes to the ‘luxurious offices’ for the free dollar’s worth will leave ten round iron ones,” said Baker.

After a moment the Painless One and the Wizard marched smartly out, serenely oblivious of the crowd.  They stepped into a resplendent red brougham and were whisked rapidly away.

“It pays to advertise,” quoted Baker philosophically.

They moved on up the street.

“There’s the inventor of the Unlimited Life,” said Baker suddenly, indicating a slender figure approaching.  “I haven’t seen him in three years—­not since he got into this graft, anyway.”

“Unlimited Life,” echoed Bob, “what’s that?  A medicine?”

“No.  A cult.  Hullo, Sunny!”

The approaching figure swerved and stopped.  Bob saw a very slender figure clad in a close-fitting, gray frock suit.  To his surprise, from beneath the wide, black felt hat there peered at him the keenly nervous face of the more intelligent mulatto.  The man’s eyes were very bright and shrewd.  His hair surrounded his face as an aureole of darkness, and swept low to his coat collar.

“Mr. Baker,” he said, simply, his eyes inscrutable.

“Well, Sunny, this is my old friend Bob Orde.  Bob, this is the world-famous Sunny Larue, apostle of the Unlimited Life of whom you’ve heard so much.”  He winked at Bob.  “How’s the Colony flourishing, Sunny?”