eleven and
still owes the thousand. Had a letter from him less than a year ago,
saying he hoped to pay me some day; but bless your soul, Dic, he'll
never be able to pay a farthing. He's in France now, because he owes
nearly every one in England. Fine gentleman, though, fine gentleman,
every inch of him. Well, this coat was made by his tailor. You don't
blame me for taking good care of it, do you?"

"Indeed not," answered Dic, amused, though in sympathy with Beau
Brummel's friend.

"I have two vests in my trunk by the same artist," continued Billy. "I
don't wear them now. They won't button over my front. I'll show them to
you some day."

At this point in the conversation our friends stepped into the stage
coach. Others being present, Billy was silent as an owl at noonday. With
one or two sympathetic listeners Billy was a magpie; with many, he was a
stork--he loved companionship, but hated company.

Arriving at Indianapolis, our worthy kidnappers sought the house of
unsuspecting Justice, and were received with a frigid dignity becoming
that stern goddess. Dic, wishing to surprise Rita, had not informed her
of his intended visit. After waiting a few minutes he asked, "Where is
Rita?"

"She is sick," responded Mrs. Bays. "She has not been out of her bed for
three days. We have had two doctors with her. She took seven different
kinds of medicine all yesterday, and to-day she has been very bad."

"No wonder," remarked Billy; "it's a miracle she isn't dead. Seven
different kinds! It's enough to have killed a horse. Fortunately she is
young and very strong."

"Well, I'm sure she would have died without them," answered Mrs. Bays.

"You believe six different kinds would not have saved her, eh?" asked
Billy.

"Something saved her. It must have been the medicine," replied Mrs.
Bays, partly unconscious of Billy's irony. She was one of the many
millions who always accept the current humbug in whatever form he comes.
Let us not, however, speak lightly of the humble humbug. Have you ever
considered how empty this world would be without his cheering presence?
You notice I give the noun "humbug" the masculine gender. The feminine
members of our race have faults, but great, monumental, world-pervading
humbugs are masculine, one and all, from the old-time witch doctor and
Druid priest down to the--but Mrs. Bays was speaking:--

"The doctors worked with her for four hours last night, and when they
left she was almost dead."