"No, he’s best in the audience. He’s a good capper, but I don’t believe he could play spook—besides, he’s getting too fleshy." "Who else have you got regular?" asked Professor Vixley. "Only two or three. I don’t need so many touts as most. I pride myself on doing my own work without much help. Of course, you got to give a name sometimes when a fishing test won’t work, and a friend in the audience helps. Miss French, she’s pretty good, but she’s tricky. I’m afraid of her. I was gave away once to the _Chronicle_ and I lost a whole lot of business. Men are safer. Harry Debert is straight enough, but he’s stupid. He’s the too-willing kind, and you don’t have a chance to get any effect. "Say, Spoll," she added to her husband, "be sure and don’t take no combs nor gloves! I ain’t going to do no diagnosing in public—not for ten cents. Them that want it can pay for it and take a private setting." "They’re mostly flowers to-night," said Spoll as he crept out of the room. "Lord, I do hate a flower test!" she groaned. "It’s too hard work. Of course, they’re apt to bring roses if their name’s Rose, or lilies and daisies the same way, but you can’t never be sure, and you have to fish. Lockets is what I like, lockets and ballots." At this moment Mr. Ringa entered. He was a bleached, tow-headed youth, long and lanky, with mild gray eyes and a stubbly, straw-colored mustache. Two front teeth were missing from his upper jaw. His clothes seemed to have shrunk and tightened upon his frame. He bowed respectfully to Madam Spoll and Professor Vixley, who represented to him the top of the profession. "Did you get that ’S.F.B.’ letter, all right?" he asked. "Yes, what about it?" "She’s easy!" Vixley grinned. "If she’s easy for you she must be a cinch for us!" Ringa persevered. "Well, I got the dope, anyway. She’s a Mrs. Brindon and she’s worried about her husband—he’s gone dotty on some fluzie up North. I read her hand last week. I told her they was trouble coming to her along of a dark woman—she’s one of these beer-haired blondes—what I call a Würzburger blonde—then I showed it to her in the heart-streak. ’Go ahead and tell me how it will come out,’ she says. I says: ’There’s a peculiar condition in your hand that I ain’t quite on to,’ I says. She says: ’Why, can’t you read it?’ Says I: ’Madam, if I could read that well, I wouldn’t be doing palms for no two bits a shot; I’d be where Granthope is, with a fly-away studio and crowding it at five plunks, per.’ Then I says: ’Say, I hear Madam Spoll has great gifts in predicting at all affairs of the heart. I ain’t never been to any of her circles, but why don’t you shoot around next Thursday night and try her out?’ ’What’ll I do?’ she says. Then I told her to write on a paper, ’Does he care more for Mae Phillips than he does for me, and how will it come out?’ She done it and sealed it up into an envelope I give her." [Illustration: "I told her they was trouble coming to her"]