r month or two and Sypher's Cure
becomes a thing of the past. Nothing can pull it through. I was too
sanguine. I wish I had taken your advice oftener, Shuttleworth."

Shuttleworth thanked him for the compliment.

"One learns by experience," said he modestly. "I was born and bred in the
patent-medicine business. It's very risky. You start a thing. It catches on
for a while. Then something else more attractive comes on the market.
There's a war of advertising, and the bigger capital wins. The wise man
gets out of it just before the rival comes. If you had taken my advice five
years ago, and turned it into a company, you'd have been a rich man now,
without a care in the world. Next time you will."

"There'll be no next time," said Sypher gravely.

"Why not? There's always money in patent medicines. For instance, in a new
cure for obesity if properly worked. A man like you can always get the
money together."

"And the cure for obesity?"

Shuttleworth's dismal face contracted into the grimace which passed with
him for a smile.

"Any old thing will do, so long as it doesn't poison people."

Uncomfortable under his chief's silent scrutiny, he took off his
spectacles, breathed on them, and wiped them with his handkerchief.

"The public will buy anything, if you advertise it enough."

"I suppose they will," said Sypher. "Even Jebusa Jones's Cuticle Remedy."

Shuttleworth started and put on his spectacles.

"Why shouldn't they buy the Remedy, after all?"

"You ask me that?" said Sypher. All through the interview he had not
shifted his position. He sat fixed like a florid ghost.

The manager shuffled uneasily in his chair beside the desk, and cleared
his throat nervously.

"I'm bound to," said he, "in self-defense. I know what you think of the
Cure--but that's a matter of sentiment. I've been into the thing pretty
thoroughly, and I know that there's scarcely any difference in the
composition of the Remedy and the Cure. After all, any protecting grease
that keeps the microbes in the air out of the sore place does just as
well--sometimes better. There's nothing in patent ointment that really
cures. Now is there?"

"Are you going to the Jebusa Jones people?" asked Sypher.

"I have my wife and family," the manager pleaded. "I couldn't refuse.
They've offered me the position of their London agent. I know it must pain
you," he added hurriedly, "but what could I do?"

"Every man for himself and the devil take the hin