“You can match your credit against my quarter,” said the Idiot. “We can make it a mental match—a sort of Christian Science gamble. What am I thinking of, heads or tails?”
“Heads,” said the Doctor.
“By Jove, that’s hard luck!” ejaculated the Idiot. “You lose. I was thinking of tails.”
“Oh, thunder!” cried the Doctor, impatiently.
“Try it again, double or quits. What am I thinking of?” said the Idiot.
“Heads,” repeated the Doctor.
“Somebody must have told you. Heads it is. You win. We are quits, Doctor,” said the Idiot.
“But I am still without the quarter,” the physician observed.
“Yep,” said the Idiot. “But there’s one more way out of it. I’ll buy the telegram from you—C.O.D.”
“Done,” said the Doctor, holding out the message. “Here’s your goods.”