“The Mayor shut his eyes slowly and began to snore.

“‘You observe, Mr. Tiddle,’ says I, ‘the wonders of modern science.’

“‘Biddle,’ says he, ’When will you give uncle the rest of the treatment, Dr. Pooh-pooh?’

“‘Waugh-hoo,’ says I.  ’I’ll come back at eleven to-morrow.  When he wakes up give him eight drops of turpentine and three pounds of steak.  Good morning.’

“The next morning I was back on time.  ‘Well, Mr. Riddle,’ says I, when he opened the bedroom door, ‘and how is uncle this morning?’

“‘He seems much better,’ says the young man.

“The mayor’s color and pulse was fine.  I gave him another treatment, and he said the last of the pain left him.

“‘Now,’ says I, ’you’d better stay in bed for a day or two, and you’ll be all right.  It’s a good thing I happened to be in Fisher Hill, Mr. Mayor,’ says I, ’for all the remedies in the cornucopia that the regular schools of medicine use couldn’t have saved you.  And now that error has flew and pain proved a perjurer, let’s allude to a cheerfuller subject—­say the fee of $250.  No checks, please, I hate to write my name on the back of a check almost as bad as I do on the front.’

“‘I’ve got the cash here,’ says the mayor, pulling a pocket book from under his pillow.

“He counts out five fifty-dollar notes and holds ’em in his hand.

“‘Bring the receipt,’ he says to Biddle.

“I signed the receipt and the mayor handed me the money.  I put it in my inside pocket careful.

“‘Now do your duty, officer,’ says the mayor, grinning much unlike a sick man.

“Mr. Biddle lays his hand on my arm.

“‘You’re under arrest, Dr. Waugh-hoo, alias Peters,’ says he, ’for practising medicine without authority under the State law.’

“‘Who are you?’ I asks.

“‘I’ll tell you who he is,’ says Mr. Mayor, sitting up in bed.  ’He’s a detective employed by the State Medical Society.  He’s been following you over five counties.  He came to me yesterday and we fixed up this scheme to catch you.  I guess you won’t do any more doctoring around these parts, Mr. Fakir.  What was it you said I had, doc?’ the mayor laughs, ’compound—­well, it wasn’t softening of the brain, I guess, anyway.’

“‘A detective,’ says I.

“‘Correct,’ says Biddle.  ‘I’ll have to turn you over to the sheriff.’

“‘Let’s see you do it,’ says I, and I grabs Biddle by the throat and half throws him out the window, but he pulls a gun and sticks it under my chin, and I stand still.  Then he puts handcuffs on me, and takes the money out of my pocket.

[Illustration:  “And I grabs Biddle by the throat.”]

“‘I witness,’ says he, ’that they’re the same bank bills that you and I marked, Judge Banks.  I’ll turn them over to the sheriff when we get to his office, and he’ll send you a receipt.  They’ll have to be used as evidence in the case.’