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subconscious treatment of fallacies and meningitis—of that wonderful indoor sport known as personal magnetism.” But he warns the Mayor that the treatment is difficult. It uses up great quantities of soul strength. It comes high. It cannot be attempted under two hundred and fifty dollars.

The Mayor groans. But he yields. The treatment begins.

“You ain’t sick,” says Dr. Waugh-hoo, looking the patient right in the eye. “You ain’t got any pain. The right lobe of your perihelion is subsided.”

The result is surprising. The Mayor’s system seems to respond at once. “I do feel some better, Doc,” he says, “darned if I don’t.”

Mr. Peters assumes a triumphant air. He promises to return next day for a second and final treatment.

“I’ll come back,” he says to the young man, “at eleven. You may give him eight drops of turpentine and three pounds of steak. Good-morning.”

Next day the final treatment is given. The Mayor is completely restored. Two hundred and fifty dollars, all in cash, is handed to “Dr. Waugh-hoo.” The young man asks for a receipt. It is no sooner written out by Jeff Peters, than:

“‘Now do your duty, officer,’ says the Mayor, grinning much unlike a sick man.

“Mr. Biddle lays his hand on my arm.

“‘You’re under arrest, Dr. Waugh-hoo, alias Peters,’ says he, ‘for practising medicine without authority under the State law.’