"You're talking through your hat, Flopper," he said shortly. "You don't know Helena."
"It's a wise guy dat knows skirts," said the Flopper profoundly; then, with something approaching a sigh: "Say, Doc, dere's a lalapazoozoo, a peach down here."
"Hullo!" exclaimed Madison, shooting a hurried and critical glance at the Flopper in the moonlight. "What's this, Flopper—what's this? What have you been up to? You're supposed to be attending strictly to business."
"An' you needn't t'ink I ain't," asserted the Flopper. "But I can't stop de town fallin' over itself to bring de whole farmyard, an' eggs, an' butter, an' flour, an' everyt'ing else out here every mornin', can I? She's blown in twice wid cream fer de Patriarch."
"What's her name?" inquired Madison quizzically.
"Mamie Rodgers," said the Flopper. "She says her old man keeps a store in de village."
"I know her," nodded Madison. "Pretty girl and all right, Flopper. But mind what you're doing, that's all. I don't want any complications to queer things around here—understand? But let's get down to the business that I came out about—the lay from now on. You can put Helena wise."
"Sure," said the Flopper earnestly.
"Well then, listen," said Madison. "The patients have begun to arrive—there were three of them in to-day. There's no more circus parades—everything's under the tent after this. I want you to wean the Patriarch entirely from that front room—that's to be free for anybody to enter so's they can drink in atmosphere—and see the contribution box. But they don't see the Patriarch. Get his armchair into his own room, make him comfortable there—get the idea? Now, there's no consultation hours—the Patriarch can't be seen just by asking for him—the only chance they get at the Patriarch is by an exercise of patience that'll work their faith up to a pitch that'll do them some good. The harder it is to get a thing, the more it's worth and the more you want it—that's the principle. See?"
"Sure," said the Flopper, licking his lips.