“It’s very strange that no one seems willing to drive him,” she said.

“Oh, not very,” responded Thornton, with a short laugh.  “I don’t blame them—­they don’t want this healer of theirs made a monkey of.”

“If no one will drive him, he shall have my wheel-chair,” announced Mrs. Thornton impulsively.  “I think it is a perfect shame—­the poor man!”

“Nonsense!” said Thornton gruffly.  “You’ll do nothing of the kind.”

“Yes, Robert, I will,” declared Mrs. Thornton with determination.  She leaned forward and called to the Flopper.  “Mr. Coogan,” she said anxiously, “if you can’t find any other way of getting out there, I want you to take this chair of mine—­you’ll be able to manage with it, I am sure.”

The Flopper looked at her with gratitude—­but shook his head—­mindful of Doc Madison.

“T’anks, mum,” he said, “but I couldn’t t’ink of it—­you needs it more’n me.”

“Please do,” she insisted.

“T’anks, mum,” said the Flopper again, “but I couldn’t.  You needs it, an’ I can get along widout it.  Dey’re stallin’ on me, but I can get dere by myself if any one’ll show me de way.”

“I’ll show you, mister,” piped a shrill voice—­and young Holmes on his crutch hopped into the circle.  “I’ll show you, mister—­an’ ’tain’t fur, neither.”

“Swipe me!” muttered the Flopper, as he surveyed the lad.  “Dis is de limit fer fair!” Perturbed and uncertain what to do, he tried to catch Doc Madison’s eye again, but a movement in the crowd had hidden Madison.

Some one in the crowd, the lingerie drummer, getting the grim humor of the situation, laughed—­and the laugh came like a challenge, taunting the quick-tempered, turbulent soul of the Flopper.

“Come on, mister!” urged the boy excitedly. “’Tain’t fur—­I’ll show you.”

“God bless you, son,” said the Flopper, while he flung an inward curse at the man who had laughed.  “Son, God bless you fer yer good heart—­go ahead—­I’ll stick to you.”

The crowd opened, making a lane through which the boy stumped on his crutch, his face flushed and eager, and through which the Flopper followed, slowly, rocking from side to side as he helped himself along with the palm of his left hand flat in the dust of the road, trailing his wobbling leg behind him.

The crowd closed in behind and moved forward.

Mrs. Thornton’s face was fever-flushed, her eyes bright; in her weak state she was on the verge of nervous hysteria.

“I want to go, Robert,” she cried.  “I must go.”

“But, my dear,” protested Thornton harshly, “this is simply the height of absurdity.  For Heaven’s sake be sensible, Naida.  Just imagine what people would say if they saw us here with this outfit of idiots—­they’d think we’d gone mad.”

“I don’t care what they’d think,” she returned feverishly, her frail fingers plucking nervously at the arms of her chair.  “I must go—­I must—­I must.”