“More and more our people are growing to see the light,” said the mulatto in low, musical tones.  “The mighty but simple principles of Azamud are coming into their own.  The poor and lowly, the humble and oppressed are learning that in me is their salvation—.”  He went on in his beautiful voice explaining the Colony of the Unlimited Life, addressing always Bob directly and paying little attention to Baker, who stood aside, his hands in his pockets, a smile on his fat, good-natured face.  It seemed that the Colony lived in tents in a canon of the foothills.  It paid Larue fifty dollars a head, and in return was supported for six months and instructed in the mysteries of the cult.  It had its regimen.  “At three we arise and break our fast, quite simply, with three or four dry prunes,” breathed Larue, “and then, going forth to the high places for one hour, we hold steadfast the thought of Love.”

“Say, Sunny,” broke in Baker, “how many you got rounded up now?”

“There are at present twenty-one earnest proselytes.”

“At fifty a head—­and you’ve got to feed and keep ’em somehow—­even three dried prunes cost you something in the long run”—­ruminated Baker.  He turned briskly to the mulatto:  “Sunny, on the dead, where does the graft come in?”

The mulatto drew himself up in swift offence, scrutinized Bob closely for a moment, met Baker’s grin.  Abruptly his impressive manner dropped from him.  He leaned toward them with a captivating flash of white teeth.

“You just leave that to me,” he murmured, and glided away into the crowd.

Baker laughed and drew Bob’s arm within his own.

“Out of twenty of the faithful there’s sure to be one or two with life savings stowed away in a sock, and Sunny’s the boy to make them produce the sock.”

“What’s his cult, anyway?” asked Bob.  “I mean, what do they pretend to believe?  I couldn’t make out.”

“A nigger’s idea of Buddhism,” replied Baker briefly.  “But you can get any brand of psychic damfoolishness you think you need in your business.  They do it all, here, from going barefoot, eating nuts, swilling olive oil, rolling down hill, adoring the Limitless Whichness, and all the works.  It is now,” he concluded, looking at his watch, “about ten o’clock.  We will finish the evening by dropping in on the Fuzzies.”

Together they boarded a street car, which shortly deposited them at an uptown corner.  Large houses and spacious grounds indicated a district of some wealth.  To one of these houses, brilliantly lighted, Baker directed his steps.

“But I don’t know these people, and I’m not properly dressed,” objected Bob.

“They know me.  And as for dress, if you’d arrange to wear a chaste feather duster only, you’d make a hit.”