as in your fix I'd fall over myself to reach
Jordan!"

"Yes, you try Jordan," said Charley, who, I'm sure, had never heard of
him before.

"Then it's me for Jordan," said I.

I went down stairs and told one of the bell-boys to look up the address
in the telephone-book. It seemed to me he looked pale, that boy.

"Aren't you well, Dan?" I said.

"I don't know what's the matter with me, sir. I guess it must be the
night work."

I gave him a five-dollar bill and made him write down 1892 Eighth Avenue
on a piece of paper.

"You go and see Doctor Jones first thing," I said. "And don't mention my
name, nor spend the money on _Her Mad Marriage_."

I jumped into a hansom with a pleasant sense that I was beginning to
make the fur fly.

"That's a horrible cold of yours, Cabby," I said as we stopped at the
bishop's door and I handed him up a dollar bill. "That's just the kind
of a cold that makes graveyards hum!"

"I can't shake it off, sir," he said despondently. "Try what I can, and
it's never no use!"

"There's one doctor in the world who can cure anything," I said; "Doctor
Henry Jones, 1892 Eighth Avenue. I was worse than you two weeks ago, and
now look at me! Take this five dollars, and for heaven's sake, man, put
yourself in his hands quick."

Bishop Jordan was a fine type of modern clergyman. He was
broad-shouldered mentally as well as physically, and he brought to
philanthropic work the thoroughness, care, enthusiasm and capacity that
would have earned him a fortune in business.

"Bishop," I said, "I've come to see if I can't make a trade with you!"

He raised his grizzled eyebrows and gave me a very searching look.

"A trade," he repeated in a holding-back kind of tone, as though
wondering what the trap was.

"Here's a check for one thousand dollars drawn to your order," I went
on. "And here's the address of Doctor Henry Jones, 1892 Eighth Avenue. I
want this money to reach him via your sick people, and that without my
name being known or at all suspected."

"May I not ask the meaning of so peculiar a request?"

"He's hard up," I said, "and I want to help him. It occurred to me that
I might make you--er--a confederate in my little game, you know."

His eyes twinkled as he slowly folded up my check and put it in his
pocket.

"I don't want any economy about it, Bishop," I went on. "I don't want to
make the best use of it, or anything of that kind. I want to slap it
into Doctor Jones' till, and slap