joint," mumbled the Flopper, "was when de kid yelled—I can hear it yet, an'—"
"Forget it!" Madison broke in a little sharply; then, tactfully, his voice full of unbounded admiration: "You're an artist, Flopper—a wonder. You pulled the greatest act that was ever on the boards, and you pulled it as no other man on earth could have pulled it. Flopper, you make me feel humble when I look at you."
"Swipe me!" said the Flopper, brightening. "D'ye mean it, Doc—honest?"
"Mean it!" ejaculated Madison. "You're the whole thing, Flopper—you win. Come on now, Helena, buck up—we've got another little act due in about fifteen minutes—don't let a lot of yowling rubes get your goat. Why, say, we've got the whole show on the stampede—and we've got to rush our luck."
"Sure!" said the Flopper. "Dat's de way to talk—leave it to de Doc every time—I ain't feazed half de way I was."
"I'm all right," said Helena a little tremulously. "What is it we're to do?"
"Good!" said Madison, smiling at her approvingly. "That sounds better. Now listen—and listen hard. From this minute this cottage is the Shrine. Get that?—Shrine. You've got to keep the hush falling here, and keep it falling all the time—a sort of holy, hallowed silence, understand? Lay it on thick—make the crowd stand back—make the guy that comes in here feel as though he ought to come in on his knees and as if
