aw
the point, and made his usual response.

"Mr. Fenton," said he, "excuse me, sir, but it's very evident that
you've not had a medical education."

"There's where you're weak," Jim responded. "I'm a reg'lar M.D., three
C's, double X, two I's. That's the year I was born, and that's my
perfession. I studied with an Injun, and I know more 'arbs, and roots,
and drawin' leaves than any doctor in a hundred mile; and if I can be of
any use to ye, Doctor, there's my hand."

And Jim seized the Doctor's hand, and gave it a pressure which raised
the little man off the floor.

The Doctor looked at him with eyes equally charged with amusement and
amazement. He never had been met in that way before, and was not
inclined to leave the field without in some way convincing Jim of his
own superiority.

"Mr. Fenton," said he, "did you ever see a medulla oblongata?"

"Well, I seen a good many garters," replied the woodsman, 'in the
stores, an' I guess they was mostly oblong."

"Did you ever see a solar plexus?" inquired the Doctor, severely.

"Dozens of 'em. I allers pick a few in the fall, but I don't make much
use of 'em."

"Perhaps you've seen a pineal gland," suggested the disgusted Doctor.

"I make 'em," responded Jim. "I whittle 'em out evenin's, ye know."

"If you were in one of these cells," said the Doctor, "I should think
you were as mad as a March hare."

At this moment the Doctor's attention was called to a few harmless
patients who thronged toward him as soon as they learned that he was in
the building, begging for medicine; for if there is anything that a
pauper takes supreme delight in it is drugs. Passing along with them to
a little lobby, where he could inspect them more conveniently, he left
Jim behind, as that personage did not prove to be so interesting and
impressible as he had hoped. Jim watched him as he moved away, with a
quiet chuckle, and then turned to pursue his investigations. The next
cell he encountered held the man he was looking for. Sitting in the
straw, talking to himself or some imaginary companion, he saw his old
friend. It took him a full minute to realize that the gentle sportsman,
the true Christian, the delicate man, the delightful companion, was
there before him, a wreck--cast out from among his fellows, confined in
a noisome cell, and hopelessly given over to his vagrant fancies and the
tender mercies of Thomas Buffum. When the memory of what Paul Benedict
had been to him, at one pe