tly, day after day,
every little while looking at his watch, wondering, and singing:

We are waiting, waiting, waiting,

Finally, as he sits near the cardial orifice, where the sign has been
recently put up,

THE ELEVATOR IS NOT RUNNING,

a light bursts through the walls of his house and he hears voices.
Hastily throwing one of the coats of the stomach over his shoulders, he
springs to his feet just in time to catch about a nickel's worth of
warm beef tea down the back of his neck.

The patient now wears about two feet of inch hose, one end of which is
introduced into the upper and anterior lobe of the stomach. The other he
has embellished with a plain cork stopper. I asked him if he would join
me in a drink of water from the ice-cooler, and he said he would, under
the circumstances. He said that he had just taken one, but would not
mind taking one more with me. He then removed the stopper from his new
Goodyear esophagus, inserted a neat little tin funnel, with which he was
able to introduce the water. It gently settled down and disappeared in
his depths, and then, putting away the garden hose, he accepted a dollar
and gave me a history of the case as I have set it forth above, or
substantially so, at least.

I could not help thinking of him afterward. I tried to imagine him on
his way to Europe over a stormy sea; the surprise of his stomach when it
found itself frustrated and beaten at its own game, and all that. Then I
thought of him as the honored guest of some great corporation or club,
and at the banquet, when the president, in a few well-chosen words,
apparently born of the moment but really wearing trousers, says,
"Gentlemen, we have with us this evening," etc., etc.; and then rising,
all the members join in a toast to the guest. Touching his glass to
theirs, and then gracefully unreeling his garden hose, he takes from his
pocket the small funnel, and, gently sipping the generous wine through
his tin pharynx, he begins his well-digested response.

Nature did not do much for this poor lad, but science has stepped in and
made him a man of mark. He went to bed unknown. He awoke to find himself
noted. He went to sleep with ordinary tastes. He arose with no taste at
all. Thus, through the medical treatment of a typhoid idiot, for a
disease which was in no way malignant, or, as I might say, therapeutic,
he became a man of parts and stands next to the nobility of Europe, not
having to work.

Afterward, in