Presently, the Flopper came out of the front door and joined him.

“Say, Doc,” announced the Flopper abruptly, “de Patriarch’s been askin’ fer youse yesterday an’ to-day.”

“Asking?” repeated Madison.

“Sure,” said the Flopper.  “He can scrawl if he is blind, can’t he?  He scrawls yer name on de slate.  We can’t tell him nothin’, an’ he’s kinder got de fidgets like he t’inks youse had flown de coop.”

“That’s so,” said Madison.  “It is rather difficult to communicate with him, isn’t it?  I guess we’ll have to get him some raised letters.”

“What’s them?” inquired the Flopper.

“I don’t know exactly,” Madison answered.  “I never saw any, but I believe they have such things.  Been asking for me, has he?  Well, I’ll fix it to see him to-morrow.  Where did you say Helena had gone?”

“I said she was out,” said the Flopper.  “If you ask me where, I’d say de same place as last night an’ de night before—­down to dat private car wid his nibs.  Say, dere’s some class to dat guy all right, an’ I guess Helena ain’t got her eyes shut.”

“Hey!” ejaculated Madison.  “What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s got de rocks, ain’t he?” declared the Flopper.  “Why shouldn’t she be after him?  Dat’s wot we’re here fer, ain’t it, de whole bunch of us?—­an’ she ain’t t’rowin’ us, is she, if she sees a chanst to pick up somet’ing on her own?”

Madison turned quickly on the Flopper.

“You mean,” he said sharply, “that there’s something going on between Helena and Thornton—­already?”

“Aw, stop kiddin’!” said the Flopper.  “Already!  Wot’s ‘already’ got to do wid it?  We ain’t none of us church members, are we?  Say, where’d you pick up Helena yerself—­and how long did it take youse?  I don’t know whether dere’s anyt’ing goin’ on or not—­mabbe she’s only gettin’ lonely—­youse ain’t hung around her much lately, Doc.”

Madison laughed suddenly.

“You’re talking through your hat, Flopper,” he said shortly.  “You don’t know Helena.”

“It’s a wise guy dat knows skirts,” said the Flopper profoundly; then, with something approaching a sigh:  “Say, Doc, dere’s a lalapazoozoo, a peach down here.”

“Hullo!” exclaimed Madison, shooting a hurried and critical glance at the Flopper in the moonlight.  “What’s this, Flopper—­what’s this?  What have you been up to?  You’re supposed to be attending strictly to business.”

“An’ you needn’t t’ink I ain’t,” asserted the Flopper.  “But I can’t stop de town fallin’ over itself to bring de whole farmyard, an’ eggs, an’ butter, an’ flour, an’ everyt’ing else out here every mornin’, can I?  She’s blown in twice wid cream fer de Patriarch.”

“What’s her name?” inquired Madison quizzically.

“Mamie Rodgers,” said the Flopper.  “She says her old man keeps a store in de village.”

“I know her,” nodded Madison.  “Pretty girl and all right, Flopper.  But mind what you’re doing, that’s all.  I don’t want any complications to queer things around here—­understand?  But let’s get down to the business that I came out about—­the lay from now on.  You can put Helena wise.”