liked.  Somehow, he’d have to jerk the old chap out of his rut and get him rigged up a little more becomingly, before the trusting public, simple as they were, were invited down to see the exhibit.  Madison’s dramatic instinct, which was developed to a keen sense of what the public craved for, rebelled against any faux pas in the scenic effects.  He fell to designing a costume that would more appropriately expound the role.

“Got to give ’em something for their money,” murmured John Garfield Madison.  “Some sort of long, flowing robe now, washed every day, sort of Grecian effect with a rope girdle, bare feet and sandals—­um-m—­dunno about the sandals—­don’t want to slop over, and besides”—­Madison grinned a little to himself—­“he might kick!”

Still reflecting, but arrived at no conclusion other than first to size up the Patriarch and see how best to handle him, Madison reached the end of the wagon track—­and halted.

It was a little lighter here, now that he had left the woods, and what appeared to be a sweep of snow-covered lawn was before him.  Around this, forming a perfect square, was a row of full-grown, magnificent maples—­a regal hedge, as it were, bordering the four sides—­planted sixty years ago!  Madison’s imagination fired exhilarantly at the inspiring thought of these in leaf—­in another few weeks.  He shook hands with himself cordially.

“Behold the amphitheater!” he said.  “This is where we stage the greatest act of the century!”

Behind the row of trees, directly across the lawn in front of him, loomed the dark shadow of a long, low, cottage-like building, and from a window a light twinkled out between the tree trunks; while from beyond again came the roll of surf, low, rhythmic, like the soft accompaniment of orchestral music.

“Wonderful!” breathed Madison.  “I feel,” said he, “as though I had just had a drink!”

He walked across the lawn, passed between the trees, and reached the end of the cottage away from where the light showed in the window.

“The Patriarch being deaf,” he remarked, “I might as well explore.”

From the row of trees to the cottage was perhaps twenty feet.  The door of the cottage, porticoed with trellis-work, was in the center of the cottage itself.  Everywhere Madison turned were trellis-work frames for flowers—­the walls of the cottage were covered, literally covered, with bare, slumbering shoots of Virginia creeper.  In a little while now the place would be a veritable paradise.  Madison raised his hat reverently.

“Fancy this on a New York stage!” said he esthetically, invoking the universe.  “Could you beat it!  I could play the Patriarch myself with this setting, and everybody would fall for it.  There’s nothing to it, nothing to it, but his make-up—­and I’ll guarantee to take care of that.  And now we’ll have a look at Aladdin’s lamp and see just what kind of rubbing up will invoke the genii!”