And while he’s out shoppin’ the Doc and me and Swifty Joe lugs the patient up to Tutwater’s office without disturbin’ his slumbers at all.
Well, I didn’t see much more of Tutwater that day, for from then on he was a mighty busy man; but as I was drillin’ across to the Grand Central on my way home I gets a glimpse of him, sportin’ a shiny hat and white spats, just rushin’ important into a swell real estate office. About noon next day he stops in long enough to shake hands and say that it’s all settled.
“Tutwater Sanatorium is a fact,” says he. “I have the lease in my pocket.”
“What is it, some abandoned farm up in Vermont?” says I.
“Hardly,” says Tutwater, smilin’ quiet.
“It’s Cragswoods; beautiful modern buildings, formerly occupied as a boys’ boarding school, fifteen acres of lovely grounds, finest location in Westchester County. We take possession to-day, with our patient.”
“But, say, Tutwater,” says I, “how in blazes did you——”
“I produced Fargo,” says he. “Dr. McWade has him under complete control and his cure has already begun. It will be finished at Cragswoods. Run up and see us soon. There’s the address. So long.”
Well, even after that, I couldn’t believe he’d really pull it off. Course, I knew he could make Fargo’s name go a long ways if he used it judicious; but to launch out and hire an estate worth half a million—why he was makin’ a shoestring start look like a sure thing.
And I was still listenin’ for news of the grand crash, when I begun seein’ these items in the papers about the Tutwater Sanatorium. “Millionaires Building a Stone Wall,” one was headed, and it went on to tell how five New York plutes, all sufferin’ from some nerve breakdown, was gettin’ back health and clearin’ up their brains by workin’ like day laborers under the direction of the famous specialist, Dr. Clinton McWade.