"Toyman," he said, "buy a bottle, an' it will cure you of that bad rheumatism."

"No," replied the Toyman, "that won't cure even chilblains. That old codger's not telling the truth. And the people are fools to believe him."

But all this time Dr. Pipp was handing out the bottles with one hand, and collecting the fifty-cent pieces with the other, and the Red Indian was singing his funny song,--

"Ging goo, ging goo, Hunk-a-tin, hunk-a-tin, hunk-a-tin, Geegry goo, geegry goo, All-a-man lissen!"

And the light nickered on the funny pictures of the skeleton and the man with his skin off, and then on Dr. Philemon Pipp with his long black hair and tall silk hat, and on the feathers of the Red Indian, as he danced up and down singing that funny song.

At last something stranger still happened.

The Toyman had just muttered to himself,--

"They're fools, they are, but I guess I ought to stop him."

And just as he said this, Dr. Philemon saw him in the crowd. The Doctor must have felt hurt because the Toyman hadn't bought any of his bottles, for he pointed a finger with a great long nail right at the Toyman and said:

"Yuh sah, aren't yuh willin' to be cuhed?"

Now the Toyman was forever saying funny and surprising things, but he never said anything funnier and more surprising in his life than what he told that patent-medicine man.

"No, thank you, Mr. Steve Jorkins"--that's just what he called him, not Dr. Pipp at all--"that medicine of yours isn't magic. It wouldn't even cure a chicken of the pip."

Then all the men crowded around the Toyman, calling him by his old name.

"Do you know him, Frank? Is he fooling us?"

"You bet he is," replied the Toyman, "and he's got all your hard-earned money in his jeans."

Then he called to the boys to "come quick," for he thought there would be trouble, and there was.

For all those men and boys in the crowd climbed up on the wagon--and they grabbed Dr. Philemon Pipp by his fine fur collar--and they made him give back their money, every last cent of it. Then, while some of them held him, the others smashed all his bottles until the black juice ran over the tailboard like a dark waterfall, and they hurled his high silk hat on the top of the lamp-post, yelling,--

"You git out of here, quick! Come, skedaddle!"

And since, in his fright, he didn't "skedaddle" fast enough to suit them, they threw beets and all sorts of vegetables at him, vegetables that had been ripe a very long time. So at last the tall Doctor with his fine fur collar--but without his silk hat--hitched up his horses with trembling fingers, and he and his helper Jake and the Red Indian drove out of town "lickety-split." You could hear the wagon-wheels rattling away long after he turned the corner.

Then the Toyman "tlucked" to Hal and they drove off, too.

"How did you know him?" Jehosophat asked, after they had trotted a little way.

"Oh, I used to know him out West. He didn't remember me, but I did _him_. I bought one of his bottles once."

"Is he a robber?"

"Well, he calls himself a patent-medicine man, but I'd call him a 'fakir.'"

"What's a 'fakir,' Toyman?" put in Marmaduke, very sleepily.

"Oh, a man who pretends to be something he isn't, and who sells folks something that's no good, and takes all their money for nothing.

But"--and he laughed--"some folks like to be fooled."

"It's too bad!" sighed Marmaduke.

"What's too bad, sonny?"

"Why, to smash all those big bottles and waste all that lovely licorice water."

But he soon forgot all about the bottles and the licorice water, and the bad Doctor Pipp with the tall hat and the fur collar, and the Red Indian, too, for, as they rode along by the River, the Moon was up, and seemed to be riding along with them--never getting ahead or behind, just keeping even with Hal the Red Roan. And Marmaduke loved to go riding or walking with a great yellow moon. Besides, the Toyman told them a story, as he had promised--and a nice one it was--so the little boy fell asleep.

But I wouldn't say that they never dreamed about that fur collar, and the tall hat, and the Indian, and all those bottles.

It's just possible that they did.

X

WHEN JEHOSOPHAT FORGOT HIS PIECE

There was much excitement in the Red Schoolhouse. Examinations were over; books laid aside. And the walls re-echoed to thrilling sounds,--to happy voices and shuffling feet, to poetry, marches, and songs. They were practising for Commencement, for Closing Day. And at home the parents were busy, too, making white dresses and sashes for the girls, buying new suits for the boys in town, or making some over from father's old trousers.

Marmaduke was to take part in the marches and songs, but Jehosophat had to speak a whole piece, all alone too. It was a great honor, no doubt about that, which Jehosophat didn't appreciate. He thought it a bother.

Now their teacher was a patriot and fond of History. All through the term she had told them tales of brave lads who were good and great.

Probably she wanted them to become good and great, too, and of course it was the thing to be. That Jehosophat knew, but it was pretty hard when one kept forgetting.

So he wasn't at all sure of himself, but of one thing he _was_ sure,--the stories were lost on Fatty. Try as he would he never could think of _him_ as being "good and great," or exactly "a hero."

But that was the least of Jehosophat's worries. He had been given a piece to learn--to recite before a big crowd!

It was poetry--all about a boy who had stuck by his ship and gone down with it, too. The piece was called by the boy's name--a queer sort of word--Casabianca. If the piece was as hard as its name, Jehosophat thought he never would learn it.

"Well, Jehosophat," said his father that night, "how's the orator?"

But Mother said,--

"Don't tease him, Will, I'm sure he'll do us proud."

Jehosophat squirmed in his seat. He didn't want to "do anyone proud."

That was not his ambition. And he squirmed still more when she asked him,--

"Have you learned it all, Jehosophat?"

He mumbled something that sounded like,--