Littlefield.
Lights a cigarette, as he leans on the edge of the table.
Don't have to go to professional medicine for cases. They're lying around loose. Why, when I was at Ann Arbor—in a fraternity initiation—we bared a chap's shoulders, showed him a white-hot poker, blindfolded him, told him to stand steady, and—touched him with a piece of ice. A piece of ice, I tell you! What happened? Damned if it—pardon me, Mr. Culpepper—blessed if it didn't burn him—carries the scars to this day. Then there was that case in Denver. Ever hear about that? A young girl, nervous patient. Nails driven through the palms of her hands,—tenpenny nails,—under the hypnotic suggestion that she wasn't being hurt. Didn't leave a cicatrice as big as a bee sting! Fact!
Beeler.
You think my wife's case is like these?
Littlefield.
Precisely; with religious excitement to help out.
He points outside.
They're getting ready for Kingdom-come over it, out yonder, dear Dr. Culpepper.
Beeler.