Robert Thornton, master of millions, hard-headed and practical for all his youth, leaned forward in his chair toward the Flopper.

“Look here,” he said bluntly, “you don’t mean to say that you believe this seriously, do you?”

“Oh, no!” said the Flopper softly.  “Nothin’ like dat!  Of course I don’t believe it!  I’m only guyin’ myself—­see?  I’m just goin’ dere fer fun—­an’ spendin’ me last red to get dere.  Say”—­his voice snapped—­“wot do youse t’ink I am, anyway?”

“Surely, Robert,” said Mrs. Thornton gently, “it is evident enough that he believes it.”

Thornton did not look at her—­he was still gazing at the Flopper, his brows knitted.

“How long have you been like this?” he demanded sharply.

“All me life,” said the Flopper.  “I was born dat way.”

“And you expect to go down here and by some means, which I must confess is quite beyond my ability to grasp, be cured in a miraculous manner!”—­Thornton smiled tolerantly.

“Sure, I do!” asserted the Flopper doggedly.  “If he’s done it fer de crowd dere, why can’t he do it fer me?  Didn’t de postmaster say all yer gotter have is faith?  Well, I got de faith—­an’ I got it hard enough to stake all I got on it.  Dis time to-morrow—­say, dis time to-morrow I wouldn’t change places wid any man in de United States.”

Thornton’s tolerant smile deepened.

“I guess you’re sincere enough,” he said; “and I’m not trying to cut the ground of hope out from under your feet, as you put it out on the platform—­but it seems to me that it is only the kindly thing to do to warn you that the more faith you put in a thing like this the worse you are making it for yourself—­you are laying up a bitter disappointment in store that can only make your present misfortune the more unbearable.”

The Flopper shook his head.

“If he’s done it fer others, he can do it fer me,” he repeated, with unshaken conviction.  “An’ dat goes—­I can’t lose.”

Thornton tilted his chair back again, and stared at the Flopper with pitying incredulity.

There was silence for a moment; then Mrs. Thornton spoke.

“Robert,” she said slowly, “I want to stop at Needley.”

The front legs of Thornton’s chair came down on the heavy carpet with a dull thud, and he whirled around in his seat to stare at his wife.

“You don’t mean to say, Naida,” he gasped, “that you’ve got faith in this thing, too!”

“No; not faith,” she answered pathetically.  “I hardly dare to hope.  I have hoped so much in the last year, and—­”

“But this is sheer nonsense!” Thornton broke in with irritable impatience.  “I can understand this man here, in a way—­he has the superstition, if you like to call it that, due to lack of education, if he’ll pardon my saying so in his presence; but you, Naida, surely you can’t take any stock in it!”

She smiled at him a little wanly.