"You won't laugh when I get through with you," remarked Helena, her eyes on the curl of smoke from her cigarette.
"There's just one more thing," went on Doc Madison, "and I'm through with you, Flopper. Don't come down there looking like a skate—that's too raw. Get new clothes and a shave—and keep shaved. And from the minute you buy your ticket, you keep your bones, or whatever a beneficent nature has given you in place of them, out of joint—see?"
"I'm hip," declared the Flopper—and the dog-like admiration for Doc Madison burned in his eyes. "Say, Doc, youse are de—"
"Never mind, Flopper," Madison cut in brightly. "It's getting late. Now, Harry, about you. You've got a name, I believe. Evans, isn't it? Yes—well, that will do. Now, don't kill yourself at it, but the more you work your dope needle overtime before you start, and the harder you cough when you first land there the better. We've got to have variety, you know. You're a physical wreck with the folks back home sending the casket and trimmings after you on the next train in care of the station agent."
"I guess," coughed Pale Face Harry, with a sickly smile, "I look the part."
"You certainly do," said Helena cheerfully, beating a tattoo with her heels on the end of the couch.
Pale Face Harry scowled.
"I ain't no artist with the paint," he sniffed.
