"'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, says I. And then I walks back to the bed and throws back my long hair.

"'Mr. Mayor, says I, 'there is only one hope for you. Drugs will do you no good. But there is another power higher yet, although drugs are high enough, says I.

"'And what is that? says he.

"'Scientific demonstrations, says I. 'The triumph of mind over sarsaparilla. The belief that there is no pain and sickness except what is produced when we ain't feeling well. Declare yourself in arrears. Demonstrate.

"'What is this paraphernalia you speak of, Doc? says the Mayor. 'You ain't a Socialist, are you?

"'I am speaking, says I, 'of the great doctrine of psychic financiering—of the enlightened school of long-distance, sub-conscientious treatment of fallacies and meningitis—of that wonderful in-door sport known as personal magnetism.

"'Can you work it, doc? asks the Mayor.

"'I'm one of the Sole Sanhedrims and Ostensible Hooplas of the Inner Pulpit, says I. 'The lame talk and the blind rubber whenever I make a pass at 'em. I am a medium, a coloratura hypnotist and a spirituous control. It was only through me at the recent seances at Ann Arbor that the late president of the Vinegar Bitters Company could revisit the earth to communicate with his sister Jane. You see me peddling medicine on the street, says I, 'to the poor. I don't practice personal magnetism on them. I do not drag it in the dust, says I, 'because they haven't got the dust.

"'Will you treat my case? asks the Mayor.

"'Listen, says I. 'I've had a good deal of trouble with medical societies everywhere I've been. I don't practice medicine. But, to save your life, I'll give you the psychic treatment if you'll agree as mayor not to push the license question.