“Aha!” says I. “He’s added a press agent to the staff, and he sure has got a bird!”
Every few days there’s a new story bobs up, better than the last, until I can’t stand it any longer. I takes half a day off and goes up there to see if he’s actually doin’ it. And, say, when I walks into the main office over the Persian rug, there’s the same old Tutwater. Course, he’s slicked up some fancy, and he’s smokin’ a good cigar; but you couldn’t improve any on the cheerful countenance he used to carry around, even when he was up against it hardest. What I asks to see first is the five millionaires at work.
“Seven, you mean,” says Tutwater. “Two more came yesterday. Step right out this way. There they are, seven; count ’em, seven. The eighth man is a practical stone mason who is bossing the job. It’s a good stone wall they’re building, too. We expect to run it along our entire frontage.”
“Got ’em mesmerized?” says I.
“Not at all,” says Tutwater. “It’s part of the treatment. McWade’s idea, you know. The vocational cure, we call it, and it works like a charm. Mr. Fargo is practically a well man now and could return to his home next week if he wished. As it is, he’s so much interested in finishing that first section of the wall that he will probably stay the month out. You can see for yourself what they are doing.”
“Well, well!” says I. “Seven of ’em! What I don’t understand, Tutwater, is how you got so many patients so soon. Where’d you get hold of ’em?”
“To be quite frank with you, McCabe,” says Tutwater, whisperin’ confidential in my ear, “only three of them are genuine paying patients. That is why I have to charge them fifty dollars a day, you see.”
“And the others?” says I.
“First class imitations, who are playing their parts very cleverly,” says he. “Why not? I engaged them through a reliable theatrical agency.”
“Eh?” says I. “You salted the sanatorium? Tutwater, I take it all back. You’re in the other class, and I’m backin’ you after this for whatever entry you want to make.”