“Start the Tutwater Sanatorium for Deranged Millionaires,” says he. “There’s a fortune in it. May I leave him here for an hour or so?”
“What for?” says I.
“Until I can engage my chief of staff,” says he.
“Say, Tutty,” says I, “do you really mean to put over a bluff the size of that?”
“I’ve thought it all out,” says he. “I can do it.”
“All right, blaze ahead,” says I; “but I’m bettin’ you land in the lockup inside of twenty-four hours.”
What do you think, though? By three o’clock he comes back, towin’ a spruce, keen eyed young chap that he introduces as Dr. McWade. He’s picked him up over at Bellevue, where he found him doin’ practice work in the psychopathic ward. On the strength of that I doubles my grubstake, and he no sooner gets his hands on the two sawbucks than he starts for the street.
“Here, here!” says I. “Where you headed for now?”
And Tutwater explains how his first investment is to be a new silk lid, some patent leather shoes, and a silver headed walkin’ stick.
“Good business!” says I. “You’ll need all the front you can carry.”