“‘Mr. Mayor，’ says I， after laying my ear to his rightshoulder blade and listening， ‘you’ve got a bad attack ofsuper-inflammation of the right clavicle of the harpsichord！’
“‘Good Lord！’ says he， with a groan， ‘Can’t you rubsomething on it， or set it or anything？’
“I picks up my hat and starts for the door.
“‘You ain’t going， doc？’ says the Mayor with a howl. ‘Youain’t going away and leave me to die with this—superfluityof the clapboards， are you？’
“‘Common humanity， Dr. Whoa-ha，’ says Mr. Biddle，‘ought to prevent your deserting a fellow-human in distress.’
“‘Dr. Waugh-hoo， when you get through plowing，’ saysI. And then I walks back to the bed and throws back mylong hair.
“‘Mr. Mayor，’ says I， ‘there is only one hope for you.
Drugs will do you no good. But there is another powerhigher yet， although drugs are high enough，’ says I.
“‘And what is that？’ says he.
“‘Scientific demonstrations，’ says I. ‘The triumph ofmind over sarsaparilla. The belief that there is no pain andsickness except what is produced when we ain’t feelingwell. Declare yourself in arrears. Demonstrate.’
“‘What is this paraphernalia you speak of， Doc？’ says theMayor. ‘You ain’t a Socialist， are you？’
“‘I am speaking，’ says I， ‘of the great doctrine of psychicfinanciering—of the enlightened school of long-distance，sub-conscientious treatment of fallacies and meningitis—of that wonderful in-door sport known as personalmagnetism.’
“‘Can you work it， doc？’ asks the Mayor.
“‘I’m one of the Sole Sanhedrims and Ostensible Hooplasof the Inner Pulpit，’ says I. ‘The lame talk and the blindrubber whenever I make a pass at ’em. I am a medium，a coloratura hypnotist and a spirituous control. It wasonly through me at the recent seances at Ann Arbor thatthe late president of the Vinegar Bitters Company couldrevisit the earth to communicate with his sister Jane. Yousee me peddling medicine on the street，’ says I， ‘to thepoor. I don’t practice personal magnetism on them. I donot drag it in the dust，’ says I， ‘because they haven’t gotthe dust.’
“‘Will you treat my case？’ asks the Mayor.
“‘Listen，’ says I. ‘I’ve had a good deal of trouble withmedical societies everywhere I’ve been. I don’t practicemedicine. But， to save your life， I’ll give you the psychictreatment if you’ll agree as mayor not to push the licensequestion.’
“‘Of course I will，’ says he. ‘And now get to work， doc，for them pains are coming on again.’
“‘My fee will be 250.00， cure guaranteed in twotreatments，’ says I.
“‘All right，’ says the Mayor. ‘I’ll pay it. I guess my life’sworth that much.’
“I sat down by the bed and looked him straight in theeye.
“‘Now，’ says I， ‘get your mind off the disease. You ain’tsick. You haven’t got a heart or a clavicle or a funny boneor brains or anything. You haven’t got any pain. Declareerror. Now you feel the pain that you didn’t have leaving，don’t you？’
“‘I do feel some little better， doc，’ says the Mayor， ‘darnedif I don’t. Now state a few lies about my not having thisswelling in my left side， and I think I could be propped upand have some sausage and buckwheat cakes.’
“I made a few passes with my hands.
“‘Now，’ says I， ‘the inflammation’s gone. The right lobeof the perihelion has subsided. You’re getting sleepy. Youcan’t hold your eyes open any longer. For the present thedisease is checked. Now， you are asleep.’