“I made a few passes with my hands.

“ ‘Now,’ says I, ‘the inflammation’s gone. The right lobe of the perihelion has subsided. You’re getting sleepy. You can’t hold your eyes open any longer. For the present the disease is checked. Now, you are asleep.’

“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 went 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 colour 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 cheques, please; I hate to write my name on the back of a cheque 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. Faker. 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.’