"Flopper," said he pathetically, "your soul, like your bones, runs to rank realism. No; we don't 'croak de guy'--we cherish him, we nurse him, we fondle him. He's our one best bet, and we fold him to our breasts tenderly, and we protect him from all harm and danger and sudden death." The Flopper blinked a little helplessly. "Mabbe," said the Flopper, "I got de wrong dope. Some of dem words you read I ain't hip to. Wot's anymaly mean?" "Anomaly?"--Doc Madison reached for his glass, tossed off the contents and set it down. "It means, Flopper, in this particular instance," he said gravely, "that there shouldn't be any interrogation point after the heading." Again the Flopper blinked helplessly--and his fingers picked uncertainly at the stubble on his chin. The other two gazed disconsolately--and Helena a little pityingly as well--at Doc Madison. Doc Madison flung out his arms suddenly. "What's the matter with you all?" he demanded sarcastically. "You look as though your faces pained you! What's the matter with you? You're bright enough ordinarily, Helena, and, Harry, you're no dub--what's the matter with you? Can't you see it--can't you see it! Why, it's sticking out a mile--it's _waiting_ for us! The whole plant's there and all we've got to do is get steam under the boilers. We'll have 'em coming for the cure from every State in the Union, and begging us to let them throw their diamond tiaras at us for a look-in at the shrine. Don't you see it--can't you get it--can't you _get_ it!" Helena bent suddenly over Doc Madison's shoulder, her eyes opening wide with dawning comprehension. "The cure?" she breathed. "Sure--the cure," said Doc Madison earnestly. "The new cult--that's us. Get the people talking, show 'em something, and you'll have to put up fences and 'keep off the grass' signs to stop the lame and the halt and the blind and the neurasthenics from crowding and suffocating to death for want of air. We'll start a shrine down there that'll be a winner, and the railroads will be running excursion-rate pilgrimages inside of two months." Pale Face Harry's chair creaked, as, like the Flopper, he now crowded it in toward the table. "I get you!" said he feverishly. "I get you! I've read about them shrines--only you gotter have churches, and a carload of crutches, and that sort of thing laying around." Doc Madison smiled pleasantly.