“Flopper,” said Doc Madison in an awed voice, “the honor is all mine.”

Helena went off into a peal of rippling, silvery, contagious laughter, and her little heels again beat an exuberant tattoo on the end of the couch.

“Yes?” invited Doc Madison, smiling at her.

“I’m seeing them coming,” said Helena—­and one heel went through the cretonne upholstery of the couch.

“Good!” said Doc Madison—­and from the inside pocket of his coat he pulled out a package of crisp, new, yellow-backed bills.  “You understand that down there none of you ever heard of each other or of me before, and you drop the ’doc’—­bury it!  My name is John G. Madison—­G. for Garfield.”  His fingers passed deftly over the edges of the bills.  He pushed a little pile toward the Hopper, another toward Pale Face Harry, and tucked the remainder into his coat pocket again.  “That’ll do for expenses,” he said.  “And now, if you understand everything, principally that you’re to go to church Sundays till you hear from me, and you’re quite satisfied with the lay, we’ll adjourn, sine die, to Needley.”

Helena was holding out a very dainty hand, with pink, wiggling fingers.

“I’ll need, oh, ever so much more than they will,” she declared, with a bewitching pout.  “And, please, I’m waiting very patiently.”

Doc Madison laughed.

“By and by, Helena,” he said, patting her hand.  “Well, Flopper, well, Harry—­what do you say?”

The Flopper pushed back his chair and stood up hesitantly like a man unexpectedly called upon for an after-dinner speech.  He stood there awkwardly a moment gazing at Doc Madison, his tongue slowly circling his lips; then, with a gulp, as though words to express his feelings were utterly beyond him, he turned and started for the door.

Pale Face Harry, as he rose, shoved out his hand.

“I don’t deserve my luck to be in on this,” he said modestly.  “Only, Doc, push it along on the high gear, will you—­I ain’t going to be able to sleep thinking about it.”  He looked at Helena a little undecidedly—­and compromised on brevity. “’Night, Helena,” he flung out.

“Oh, good-night, Harry,” she smiled.

The Flopper turned at the door and came back a few steps into the room.

“Say, Doc,” he said, blinking furiously, “youse can wipe yer feet on me any time youse like—­dat’s wot!”

“All right, Flopper,” said Doc Madison gravely.  “When you’ve joined Tammany Hall—­good-night.”  He followed across the room, and from the doorway watched the two descend the stairs.  “Good-night,” he said again, then closed the door and came back into the room.  “Well, Helena?” he remarked tentatively.

“Well—­Garfield?”—­Helena clasped her hands around one knee and rocked gently.

“Don’t be familiar, Helena,” Doc Madison chuckled.  “Is that all you’ve got to say?”

“I’m busy thinking about The Great American Play,” she said pertly.  “There’s one thing you forgot.”