Did it go? Does anything that Perkins the Great puts his soul into go? It went with a rush. We looked up the rheumatism statistics of the United States, and, wherever there was a rheumatism district, we billed the barns and fences. We sent circulars and “follow-up” letters, and advertised in local and county papers. We shipped the water by single demijohns at first, and then in half-dozen crates, and then in car-lots. We established depots in the big business centres, and took up magazine advertising on a big scale. Wherever man met man, the catchwords, “Perkins pays the freight,” were bandied to and fro. “How can you afford a new hat?” “Oh, 'Perkins pays the freight'!” The comic papers made jokes about it, the daily papers made cartoons about it, no vaudeville sketch was complete without a reference to Perkins paying the freight, and the comic opera hit of the year was the one in which six jolly girls clinked champagne glasses while singing the song ending: “To us no pleasure lost is, And we go a merry gait; We don't care what the cost is, For Perkins pays the freight.” As for testimonials, we scooped in twenty-four members of Congress, eight famous operatic stars, eighty-eight ministers, and dead loads of others. And our lots in the Glaubus Land and Improvement Company's Addition to the town of Glaubus? We began by giving full-sized dwelling-house lots. Then we cut it down to business-lot size; and, as the labels kept pouring in, we reduced the lots to cemetery lot size. We had lot owners in Alaska, Mexico, and the Philippines; and the village of Glaubus fixed up its park, and even paved the main street with taxes. Whenever a lot owner refused to pay his taxes, the deed was cancelled; and we split the lot up into smaller lots, and distributed them to new label savers. We also sent agents to organize Rheumatism Clubs in the large cities. That was Perkins's greatest idea, but it was too great. One morning as Perkins was opening the mail, he paused with a letter open before him, and let his jaw drop. I walked over and laid my hand on his shoulder. “What is it, Perky?” I asked. He lay back in his chair, and gazed at me blankly. Then he spoke. “The lame and the halt,” he murmured. “They are coming. They are coming here. Read it?” He pushed the letter toward me feebly. It was from the corresponding secretary of the Grand Rapids Rheumatic Club. It said: