"Sometimes," Madison went on, "you're to keep the Patriarch under cover for two or three days, while they hang around working themselves into a frenzy. And when they do see him they have to scramble for it. You don't lead him out to them—ever. Make them waylay him when
you take him for a walk—make them crawl and hop and show they've got faith, make them believe they've got faith themselves—we'll get some more cures, or near-cures anyway, that way, and we won't get them any other way, and we've got to have some sort of cures coming along fairly regularly. Do you get me, Flopper? If there's a party on a cot a hundred yards away and he begs you to bring the Patriarch to him, say him nay. Everybody has got to get into the reserved paddock by themselves—tell them that no man can be cured who has not got the faith to reach the Patriarch by himself—tell them to get up and walk to him—tell them what you did."
"Swipe me!" said the Flopper. "Say, Doc, youse are de one an' only. I gotcher—put it up to dem everytime."
"Exactly," said Madison. "It's their move every minute—make them feel that if they don't get what they're after it's their own fault—that it's their own lack of faith that's to blame. And the longer they have to wait to see the Patriarch, the more they become impressed that faith is necessary, and—oh, well, psychology is the greatest jollier of them all."
"Eh?" inquired the Flopper. "I ain't on dere, Doc."
"It's very simple," smiled Madison, "They'll want to convince themselves that they have got faith, that it's all bottled up and ready to have the cork drawn when called for, and they'll prove
it to themselves by laying an offering upon the shrine as evidence of faith before the goods are delivered."
"I gotcher!" said the Flopper enthusiastically. "Why say, Doc, dat's de way I'd do meself—swipe me, if I wouldn't!"
"That's the way nearly everybody would do," said Madison, laughing. "There's at least a few similar kinks common to our noble race—we're busy most of the time trying to fool ourselves one way or another. Well, that's about all. I can't lay out a programme for every minute of the day—you and Helena have got to use your heads and work along that general idea. You play up your gratitude strong. And, oh yes—keep the altar box well baited. Let Helena put some of her near-diamond rings and joujabs in until we collect some genuine ones—and then keep the genuine ones going—change every day for variety, you know. And take the silver money out every time you see any in—not that we scorn it in the great aggregate, far from it—it's just psychology again, Flopper. I went to church once and sat beside a duck with a white waistcoat and chop whiskers, who wore the dollar sign sticking out so thick all over him that you couldn't see anything else; and when it came time for collection he peeled a bill off a roll the size of a house, and waited for the collection plate to come along. But he got his eye on the plate a couple of pews ahead and it was full of coppers and chicken feed,
and he did the palming act with the bill slicker than a faro dealer—and whispered to me to change a quarter for him."