e see," the orator went on, running his eye over the audience. He
had resumed his quieter manner. "There are perhaps seven hundred people
present. That would make fourteen hundred dollars. By the way, John,"
he addressed some one briskly. "Close the gates and lock them. We don't
want anybody in on this who didn't have interest enough in our show to
come in the first place." He winked humorously at the crowd, and several
laughed.

"Pretty rotten, eh?" whispered Baker admiringly. "Fixed 'em so they
won't bolt when the show's over and before he works off his dope."

"These Two Silver Dollars, which I want you all to get, are in these
hampers. Six little boys will distribute them. Come up, boys, and get
each a hatful of dollars." The six solemnly marched up on the stage and
busied themselves with the hampers. "While we are waiting," went on the
orator, "I will seize the opportunity to present to you the world-famed
discoverer of that wonderful anaesthetic, Oxodyne, Painless Porter."

At the words a dapper little man in immaculately correct evening dress,
and carrying a crush hat under his arm, stepped briskly from the wings.
He was greeted by wild but presumably manufactured applause. He bowed
rigidly from the hips, and at once began to speak in a high and nasal
but extremely penetrating voice.

"As far as advertising is concerned," he began without preamble, "it is
entirely unnecessary that I give this show. There is no man, woman or
child in this marvellous commonwealth of ours who is not familiar with
the name of Painless Porter, whether from the daily papers, the
advertising boards, the street cars, or the elegant red brougham in
which I traverse your streets. My work for you is my best advertisement.
It is unnecessary from that point of view that I spend this money for
this show, or that this extra money should be distributed among you by
my colleague, Wizard Walker, the Medical Marvel of Modern Times."

The tall man paused from his business with the hampers and the six boys
to bow in acknowledgment.

"No, ladies 'n' gentlemen, my purpose is higher. In the breast of each
human being is implanted an instinctive fear of Pain. It sits on us like
a nightmare, from the time we first come to consciousness of our
surroundings. It is a curse of humanity, like drink, and he who can
lighten that curse is as much of a philanthropist as George W. Childs or
Andrew Carnegie. I want you to go away and talk about me. It don't
ma