than the natural beauties of its
scenery and the health-giving quality of its waters. For while the sick
and the ailing may be tempted to the Springs in the hope of gaining
health from the bad-smelling waters they drink, and dozens of
florid-faced men invade the little town almost every day from the big
and distant cities in order to "get washed out" after too much
indulgence in alcoholic stimulants, there are others who go to the
Springs simply for the excitement of a little whirl at the gaming
tables, which rumor says abound there, but which a shrewd deputy sheriff
invariably reports to the local grand jury, "_Non est._"

The town itself is a tiny hamlet. There is a post-office, a railroad
station, a few frame buildings, and the hotel--_the_ hotel, because it
is the only shelter the town affords to the weary traveler. Patrons who
have stopped at the City Hotel in Marshalltown, Iowa, or the Commercial
House in Joplin, Missouri, may wonder how such a tiny town supports such
a gigantic hotel, but the rural spectators at the railroad station, who
have seen the trains on the little branch road bring in Pullman after
Pullman loaded to the roofs, know that no small part of the great
outside world comes here for rest, recreation, and rehabilitation.
Drinking is under the ban here--that is, if you must drink, you must
drink the sulphur water. And every one who has tried to mix alcohol with
the water of the Springs knows the evil consequences thereof.

Which latter explains why Mr. "Marky" Zinsheimer, New York, feather
importer, was particularly grouchy on a certain autumn afternoon when he
strolled into the sun parlor on the veranda of the French Lick Springs
Hotel. In the vicinity of Broadway and Canal Street, New York, Mr.
Zinsheimer was a personage of great importance. Not a cloak model in the
Grand Street district but knew him to be "a perfectly lovely gentleman."
Not a chorus girl south of Fifty-ninth Street but knew that "Marky" was
always a friend in need and a friend indeed. The waiters at Rector's
treated him almost as if he were an equal. He was always sure of a
prominent table at the Cafe de l'Opera, whether he wore evening clothes
or not. He was accustomed to attention, and demanded it. Furthermore, he
was willing to pay for all the attention he received. Forty-two years
old, with a blond German personality which manifested itself in a
slightly bald forehead, slightly curled blond hair, and a slightly blond
mousta