"Tigerskin is twenty years old, nearly blind, and can hardly hobble a step. My dear Wetherell, that horse has won me no end of money on the track! He's been worth his weight in gold! I hate to think of him as dead." He laid a cold hand upon the doctor's. "How about chloroform? It's safe, painless----" "It's painless enough," interrupted the physician, "but it's not always sure." Wilkinson's hand trembled. "It kills men sure enough, doesn't it?" Wetherell shook his head. "Not sure enough," he answered. "They come out of it when one least expects it." "Strychnine, then, or prussic acid?" suggested Wilkinson. Again Wetherell shook his head. "I wouldn't give either of them to my dearest enemy," he opined. "My advice is, not...." He drew forth a tiny cigarette and lighted it. "My suggestion, Mr. Wilkinson--of course I'm not a horse doctor, and there's no charge for this--my method, rather, would be powder and shot--the old-fashioned way...." "Pistol?" "Yes." "A pistol bullet through the heart?" went on Wilkinson, his hand still resting lightly on the doctor's and his voice trembling. "Let's see, you know I'm going to do this thing myself,--a horse's heart is in the same place as a man's, isn't it?" He placed his hand on the right side of his chest about even with his shoulder. "Good gracious, man!" piped up the doctor, growing red in the face with laughter. "Don't you know where your heart is? Didn't you ever go to school?" Wilkinson flushed. "Don't tread on facts, Doc," he protested. "Your heart is right there," explained the physician, placing the millionaire's big paw-like hand over the right spot, and waiting until Wilkinson could feel it throb. "You hear it beat?" he asked. "That's where your heart is; but don't ever shoot a horse, or a man, either, through the heart unless you want him to suffer the tortures of the damned. He might linger hours in terrific pain. No, no, the head's the place...." Wilkinson shifted his hand from his heart to his head. "Quickly, eh?" he continued eagerly, "and painless, too." The specialist replied in the affirmative. "Suppose, now," continued Peter V., "that we had old Tigerskin here. Just what part of the head would I aim at? Back here?" "The temple," said the doctor. "That's back here, isn't it?" persisted his patient, forcing a laugh at his own ignorance. "Where is it on a horse, anyhow?" Parker Wetherell touched his own forehead, and said: "Just about where it is on a man. Right here at the side of the head in front of the ear." Wilkinson had withdrawn his hand and was tapping the table in front of him nervously. "Doc," he insisted, "just put my finger on the spot--here on my head--and when I get Tigerskin, why then I'll know...." The physician seized his patient's pudgy finger, held it for an instant poised half an inch from the big man's head, and then jammed it into the temple with precision. "There," he exclaimed, "that's just the spot!"