We drove several miles, it seemed to me, and then suddenly turned into the yard of a farmhouse. I felt the carriage shudder as the wheel grazed the stone gatepost. The door opened and a long splinter of light darted out upon us. Two women hurried down the walk and helped me out of the carriage. They were strangers to me, and now I was sure that I was in the midst of an exciting adventure, not at the home of my friend. The women escorted me to the house, where I found two solemn-faced gentlemen evidently waiting for me. One of them held up a finger and beckoned me into an adjoining room, where upon a bed lay a man who glared at me with no agreeable face. By this time I had my “acousticon” in working order, and as this man evidently had something to say, I held the mouthpiece down to him and heard him shout: “_I tell you I won’t have it cut off!_” The two men who had brought me in were very much startled when the exact contents of my black case was revealed. They glanced at each other and then promptly escorted me out of the room. We went into the kitchen, and there, beside the stove, the mystery was explained. One of the men looked curiously at me and then asked: “Are you not Dr. Newton of New York?” I hastened to explain that I had never before heard of Dr. Newton. Then it was revealed to me that these men were country doctors, waiting to hold a consultation with the great surgeon, who had been expected to arrive on my train. The man on the bed had had serious trouble with his knee. These physicians had agreed that the limb must be removed, yet both hesitated to perform a complicated operation. Hence, the surgeon was coming to do it. The sick man’s father-in-law had gone to the station; he had been instructed to bring back a man of medium size, who said little and carried a black case of surgical instruments. I was to look for an elderly man with a gray beard. Father-in-law and I had mixed our signals. It took me but a short time to convince these physicians that I could not fill the bill or saw off the leg. At last it developed that the actual surgeon was detained and could not come until the following day. The man on the bed forgot his terror and laughed when I told him my story, and it gave him the fighting courage to compel his wife to telegraph the surgeon not to come at all. But those doctors acted as though I had deprived them of their prey. In my capacity as substitute surgeon I gave the patient the best advice I knew of: “As one afflicted man to another, I advise you to hang right on to your leg. Try the faith cure and make yourself believe it can be saved.” “You bet I will. They’ll have to cut my throat before they cut this leg off!” I saw him some years later. He carried a cane and limped, but he still had two legs.