"Indeed not," answered Dic, amused, though in sympathy with Beau Brummel's friend.
"I have two vests in my trunk by the same artist," continued Billy. "I don't wear them now. They won't button over my front. I'll show them to you some day."
At this point in the conversation our friends stepped into the stage coach. Others being present, Billy was silent as an owl at noonday. With one or two sympathetic listeners Billy was a magpie; with many, he was a stork—he loved companionship, but hated company.
Arriving at Indianapolis, our worthy kidnappers sought the house of unsuspecting Justice, and were received with a frigid dignity becoming that stern goddess. Dic, wishing to surprise Rita, had not informed her of his intended visit. After waiting a few minutes he asked, "Where is Rita?"
"She is sick," responded Mrs. Bays. "She has not been out of her bed for three days. We have had two doctors with her. She took seven different kinds of medicine all yesterday, and to-day she has been very bad."
"No wonder," remarked Billy; "it's a miracle she isn't dead. Seven different kinds! It's enough to have killed a horse. Fortunately she is young and very strong."
"Well, I'm sure she would have died without them," answered Mrs. Bays.
"You believe six different kinds would not have saved her, eh?" asked Billy.
"Something saved her. It must have been the medicine," replied Mrs. Bays, partly unconscious of Billy's irony. She was one of the many millions who always accept the current humbug in whatever form he comes. Let us not, however, speak lightly of the humble humbug. Have you ever considered how empty this world would be without his cheering presence? You notice I give the noun "humbug" the masculine gender. The feminine members of our race have faults, but great, monumental, world-pervading humbugs are masculine, one and all, from the old-time witch doctor and Druid priest down to the—but Mrs. Bays was speaking:—
"The doctors worked with her for four hours last night, and when they left she was almost dead."