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 the 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 Train had met Number Six head on.

When the Subject of this Treatise came to, he was propped up on the
front porch of a Farm House with one Leg in Splits and a kind-faced
Lady pressing Cold Applications to the fevered Brow.

He was O. K. except that he would have to lie still for a few Weeks
while the Bones did their Knitting.

The good Country Folk would not permit him to be moved. He was dead
willing to sink back among the White Pillows and figure the Accident
Insurance.

Through the Honeysuckles and Morning-Glories he could see the long
slope of the Clover Pasture, with here and there a deliberate Cow, and
the Steeple of the Reformed Church showing above a distant clump of
Soft Maples.

About two hours after emerging from the trance, he made his customary
Diagnosis and discovered that he was nervously shattered and in urgent
need of a most heroic Bracer. He beckoned to the president of the
local W. C. T. U. and said if they were all out of Scotch, he could do
with a full-sized Hooker of