f he's actually doin' it. And, say, when I walks into the main
office over the Persian rug, there's the same old Tutwater. Course, he's
slicked up some fancy, and he's smokin' a good cigar; but you couldn't
improve any on the cheerful countenance he used to carry around, even
when he was up against it hardest. What I asks to see first is the five
millionaires at work.

"Seven, you mean," says Tutwater. "Two more came yesterday. Step right
out this way. There they are, seven; count 'em, seven. The eighth man is
a practical stone mason who is bossing the job. It's a good stone wall
they're building, too. We expect to run it along our entire frontage."

"Got 'em mesmerized?" says I.

"Not at all," says Tutwater. "It's part of the treatment. McWade's idea,
you know. The vocational cure, we call it, and it works like a charm. Mr.
Fargo is practically a well man now and could return to his home next
week if he wished. As it is, he's so much interested in finishing that
first section of the wall that he will probably stay the month out. You
can see for yourself what they are doing."

"Well, well!" says I. "Seven of 'em! What I don't understand, Tutwater,
is how you got so many patients so soon. Where'd you get hold of 'em?"

"To be quite frank with you, McCabe," says Tutwater, whisperin'
confidential in my ear, "only three of them are genuine paying patients.
That is why I have to charge them fifty dollars a day, you see."

"And the others?" says I.

"First class imitations, who are playing their parts very cleverly," says
he. "Why not? I engaged them through a reliable theatrical agency."

"Eh?" says I. "You salted the sanatorium? Tutwater, I take it all back.
You're in the other class, and I'm backin' you after this for whatever
entry you want to make."

CHAPTER XVII

HOW HERMY PUT IT OVER

What do you know about luck, eh? Say, there was a time when I banked
heavy on such things as four-leaf clovers, and the humpback touch, and
dodgin' ladders, and keepin' my fingers crossed after gettin' an X-ray
stare. The longer I watch the game, though, the less I think of the luck
proposition as a chart for explainin' why some gets in on the ground
floor, while others are dropped through the coal chute.

Now look at the latest returns on the career of my old grammar school
chum, Snick Butters. Maybe you don't remember my mentionin' him before.
Yes? No? It don't matter. He's the sporty young gent that's mortgaged his