"C-c-cause if I could talk as well as I c-c-can think, I could make a fortune 'side of which old John Jacob Astor's would look like a p-p-penny savings b-b-bank!"
"You could?"
"You bet your sweet life I c-c-could. And I'm just keeping my eyes open for some young f-f-fellow to help me. For 'f I can find a man that can do the t-talking (I mean real talk, you know; talk a crowd blind as b-b-bats), I've got something better'n a California g-g-gold mine."
"Better get Dave Corson," said the village wag from the rear of the crowd, and up went a wild shout of laughter.
"Who's D-D-Dave Corson?" asked the doctor.
"Quaker preacher. Young feller 'bout twenty years old."
"Can he t-t-talk?"
"Talk! He kin talk a mule into a trottin' hoss in less'n three minutes."
"He's my man!" exclaimed the doctor, at which the crowd laughed again.
"What the d-d-deuce are you laughing at?" he asked, turning upon them savagely, his loud voice and threatening manner frightening those who stood nearest, so that they instinctively stepped back a pace or two.