The Miracle Man. Frank L. Packard

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СКАЧАТЬ won't be any one left in the sanatoriums throughout the length of this broad land of freedom but the bell boys and the elevator men. Get them going, and all we've got to do is look out we don't let anything get by us in the crush—a snowball rolling down hill will size up like a plugged nickel alongside of a twenty-dollar gold piece when it gets to the bottom, compared with what we start rolling."

      "I've got you, too," said Helena. "But I don't see where the faith is coming from, or how you're going to get them coming. You've got to show them—you said so yourself—even the boobs. How are you going to do that?"

      "Well," said Doc Madison placidly, "we'll start the show with—a miracle. I haven't thought of anything more effective than that so far."

      "A what?" inquired Pale Face Harry, with a grin.

      "A miracle," repeated Doc Madison imperturbably. "A miracle—with the Flopper here in the star rôle. The Flopper goes down there all tied up in knots, the high priest, alias the deaf and dumb healer, alias the Patriarch, lays his soothing hands upon him, the Flopper uncoils into something that looks like a human being—and the trumpets blow, the band plays, and the box office opens for receipts."

      Helena slid from her seat, and, with hands on the edge of the table, advanced her piquant little face close to Doc Madison's, staring at him, breathing hard.

      "Say that again," she gasped. "Say that again—say it just once more."

      Pale Face Harry's hand, trembling visibly with emotion, was thrust out across the table.

      "Put it there, Doc," he whispered hoarsely.

      The Flopper, practical, earnestly so, lifted his right arm, wriggled it a little and began to twist it around, as though it were on a pivot at the elbow, preparatory to drawing it in, a crippled thing, toward his chin.

      Doc Madison reached out hurriedly and stopped him.

      "Here, that'll do, Flopper," he said quietly. "You don't need any rehearsal to hold your job—you're down for the number and your check's written out."

      "Swipe me!" said the Flopper to the universe. "I can smell de pine woods of Maine in me nostrils now. When does I beat it, Doc—to-morrer?"

      Doc Madison laughed.

      "No, Flopper, not to-morrow—nor for several to-morrows—not till the bill-posters get through, and the stage is dark, and you can hear a pin drop in the house. I don't want you camping out and catching cold and missing any of the luxuries you're accustomed to, so I'll start along ahead in a day or so myself and see what kind of accommodations I can secure."

      "Swipe me!" said the Flopper again. "An' to think of me wastin' me talent on rubber-neck fleets!"

      A puzzled little frown puckered Helena's forehead.

      "I was thinking about the deaf and dumb man," she said slowly. "How about him, when we pull this off—will he stand for it—and what'll he do?"

      "Aw!" said Pale Face Harry impatiently. "He don't count! He'll have bats in his belfry anyway, and if he ain't he'll go off his chump for fair getting stuck on himself when he sees the stunt he'll think he's done. He'll be looking for the wings between his shoulder blades, and hunting for the halo around his head."

      "Harry is waking up," observed Doc Madison affably. "That's about the idea, Helena. I haven't seen the Patriarch yet, but I don't imagine from his description that it'll be very hard to make him believe in himself. He doesn't stand for anything—we don't deal him any cards—he's just the kitty that circles around with the jackpots while we annex the chips."

      Doc Madison reached into his vest pocket, took out a penknife whose handle was gold-chased, opened it, and very carefully cut the article he had read from the paper.

      "Flopper," said he, "you've heard of gold bonds, haven't you?"

      The Flopper's eyes gleamed an eloquent response.

      "Only you've never had any, eh?" supplied Doc Madison.

      "Where'd I get 'em?" inquired the Flopper, with some bitterness.

      "Right here," smiled Doc Madison, handing him the clipping. "Here's a trainload and a bank vault full of them combined. Put it away, Flopper, and don't lose it. Lose anything you've got first—lose your life. It's worth a private car to you with a buffet full of fizz, and Sambo to wait on you for the rest of your life. Get that? Don't lose it!"

      The Flopper tucked the clipping into the mysterious recess of his shirt.

      "Say," he said earnestly, "if you say so, Doc, it'll be here when dey plant me."

      "All right, Flopper," nodded Doc Madison. "And now let's get down to cases. I've been able to pay my club dues lately, and there's money enough on deck to buy the costumes and put the show on the road. I start for Needley as soon as I can get away. When I'm ready for the support, you three will hear from me—and in the meantime you lay low. Nothing doing—understand? You'll get all the lime-light you want before you're through, and it's just as well not to show up so familiar when they throw the spot on you that even the school kids will know the date of your birth, and the population will start in squabbling over the choice of reserved niches for you in the Hall of Fame. See?"

      The Flopper, Pale Face Harry and Helena nodded their heads with one accord.

      "Give us the whole lay, Doc," urged Pale Face Harry. "And give it to us quick."

      "Me mouth's waterin'," observed the Flopper, licking his lips again.

      Helena lighted another cigarette, and swung herself back to her perch on the head of the couch.

      Doc Madison surveyed the three with mingled admiration and delight.

      "The world is ours!" he murmured softly.

      "Oh, hurry up and give us the rest of it," purred Helena. "We know we're an all-star cast, all right."

      "Very good," said Doc Madison—and laughed. "Well then, the order of your stage cues will depend on circumstances and what turns up down there, but we'll start with the Flopper now. First of all, Flopper, you've got to have a name. What's your real name—what did they decorate you with at the baptismal font back in the dark ages?"

      The Flopper scrubbed at his very dirty chin with a very dirty thumb and forefinger.

      "I dunno," said the Flopper anxiously.

      "Well, never mind," said Doc Madison reassuringly. "Maybe you are blessed above most people—you can pick one out for yourself. What'll it be?"

      The Flopper's thumb and forefinger scratched desperately for a moment, then his face lighted with inspiration.

      "Swipe me!" said he excitedly. "I got it—Jimmy de Squirm."

      Doc Madison shook his head gravely.

      "No, Flopper, I'm afraid not," he said gently. "That's another weak point in your interpretation of the rôle, that I'll come to in a minute. We'll give you an Irish name by way of charity—it'll help to make your classical English sound like brogue. We'll call you Coogan—Michael Coogan—that lets you off with plain Mike in times of stress."

      "Swipe СКАЧАТЬ