little inside Room, faintly perfumed with
something other than New Mown Hay. Here he would cower before the
dollar-a-minute Specialist, who would apply a Dictagraph to the Heart
Region and then say, "You are all Run Down."

Next day the Sufferer would collect his folding Trunks and Head-Ache
Tablets and Hot-Water Bags and start for Florida or California or the
Piney Woods.

Sometimes he would seem to perk up for a Day or two. Enlivened by Hope
and a few Dry Martinis, he would move up to a little Table in the
shade of the sheltering Candelabrum and tackle the Carte du Jour from
Caviar to Cafe Noir.

The Climate would seem to be helping his Appetite.

Within 24 Hours, however, he would be craving only some cold Carbonic
and a few Kind Words.

Florida seemed to enervate him. California was too unsettled. Even in
the Mountains, his Heart always bothered him after a Hearty Meal. And
the Piney Woods only made him Pine more than ever.

Time and again he would curl up in the palatial Drawing-Room at one
end of the Sleeper and dream that six Life-Long Friends in deep Black
were whispering among the Floral Tributes and putting on Cotton
Gloves.

While searching for the Fountain of Youth he would bump into
Sympathetic Souls of the kind who infest Observation Cars and hold
down Rocking-Chairs in front of Wooden Hotels. These Fellow Voyagers
in the realm of Hypochondria would give him various Capsules and
Tablets, supposed to be good for whatever Ailed one at the Time.

So eager was he to regain his full vigor and be able to eat and drink
everything forbidden by the Doctors, he would fall for every kind of
Dope made from Coal Tar.

Even if he had worn Blinders he could not have walked past an
Apothecary Shop.

As he moved about he produced a muffled Castanet Effect, for he had a
little box of Medicated Bullets in every Pocket.

Yet he was not in Condition.

His Complexion was a Bird's-Eye Maple, and he looked like the
Superintendent of a prosperous Morgue.

One Summer Day, when he was only about three jumps ahead of a
Cataleptic Convulsion, he had to get on the Cars and take a long ride
to inspect some Copper Mines which helped to fatten his impotent
Income. The train was bowling through a placid Dairy Region in the
Commonwealth regulated by Mr. La Follette.

The Chronic Invalid was in the Buffet, trying to work up a Desire for
Luncheon, when suddenly the Car turned a complete Somersault, because
a heavy Freight