Helena slid from her seat, and, with hands on the edge of the table, advanced her piquant little face close to Doc Madison’s, staring at him, breathing hard.

“Say that again,” she gasped.  “Say that again—­say it just once more.”

Pale Face Harry’s hand, trembling visibly with emotion, was thrust out across the table.

“Put it there, Doc,” he whispered hoarsely.

The Flopper, practical, earnestly so, lifted his right arm, wriggled it a little and began to twist it around, as though it were on a pivot at the elbow, preparatory to drawing it in, a crippled thing, toward his chin.

Doc Madison reached out hurriedly and stopped him.

“Here, that’ll do, Flopper,” he said quietly.  “You don’t need any rehearsal to hold your job—­you’re down for the number and your check’s written out.”

“Swipe me!” said the Flopper to the universe.  “I can smell de pine woods of Maine in me nostrils now.  When does I beat it, Doc—­to-morrer?”

Doc Madison laughed.

“No, Flopper, not to-morrow—­nor for several to-morrows—­not till the bill-posters get through, and the stage is dark, and you can hear a pin drop in the house.  I don’t want you camping out and catching cold and missing any of the luxuries you’re accustomed to, so I’ll start along ahead in a day or so myself and see what kind of accommodations I can secure.”

“Swipe me!” said the Flopper again.  “An’ to think of me wastin’ me talent on rubber-neck fleets!”

A puzzled little frown puckered Helena’s forehead.

“I was thinking about the deaf and dumb man,” she said slowly.  “How about him, when we pull this off—­will he stand for it—­and what’ll he do?”

“Aw!” said Pale Face Harry impatiently.  “He don’t count!  He’ll have bats in his belfry anyway, and if he ain’t he’ll go off his chump for fair getting stuck on himself when he sees the stunt he’ll think he’s done.  He’ll be looking for the wings between his shoulder blades, and hunting for the halo around his head.”

“Harry is waking up,” observed Doc Madison affably.  “That’s about the idea, Helena.  I haven’t seen the Patriarch yet, but I don’t imagine from his description that it’ll be very hard to make him believe in himself.  He doesn’t stand for anything—­we don’t deal him any cards—­he’s just the kitty that circles around with the jackpots while we annex the chips.”

Doc Madison reached into his vest pocket, took out a penknife whose handle was gold-chased, opened it, and very carefully cut the article he had read from the paper.

“Flopper,” said he, “you’ve heard of gold bonds, haven’t you?”

The Flopper’s eyes gleamed an eloquent response.

“Only you’ve never had any, eh?” supplied Doc Madison.

“Where’d I get ’em?” inquired the Flopper, with some bitterness.

“Right here,” smiled Doc Madison, handing him the clipping.  “Here’s a trainload and a bank vault full of them combined.  Put it away, Flopper, and don’t lose it.  Lose anything you’ve got first—­lose your life.  It’s worth a private car to you with a buffet full of fizz, and Sambo to wait on you for the rest of your life.  Get that?  Don’t lose it!”