What was it come so near gettin' me on the disabled list? Toodleism! No, I expect you didn't; but let me put you next, son: there's more 'isms and 'pathys and 'ists floatin' around these days, than any one head can keep track of. I don't know much about the lot; but this Toodleism's a punk proposition. Besides leavin' me with a game prop, it come near bu'stin'

up the fam'ly.

Seems like trouble was lookin' for me last week, anyway. First off, I has a run of old timers, that panhandles me out of all the loose coin I has in my clothes. You know how they'll come in streaks that way, sometimes?

Why, I was thinkin' of havin' 'em form a line, one while. Then along about Thursday one of my back fletchers develops a case of jumps. What's a fletcher? Why, a steak grinder, and this one has a ripe spot in it.

Course, it's me for the nickel plated plush chair, with the footrest and runnin' water attached; and after the tooth doctor has explored my jaw with a rock drill and a few other cute little tools, he says he'll kill the nerve.

"Don't, Doc.!" says I. "That nerve's always been a friend of mine until lately. Wouldn't dopin' it do?"

He says it wouldn't, that nothin' less'n capital punishment would reform a nerve like that; so I tells him to blaze away. No use goin' into details. Guess you've been there.

"Say, Doc.," says I once when he was fittin' a fresh auger into the machine, "you ain't mistakin' me for the guilty party, are you?"

"Did I hurt?" says he.

"You don't call that ticklin', do you?" says I.

But he only grins and goes on with the excavation. After he's blasted out a hole big enough for a terminal tunnel he jabs in a hunk of cotton soaked with sulphuric acid, and then tamps down the concrete.

"There!" says he, handin' me a drug store drink flavored with formaldehyde. "In the course of forty-eight hours or so that nerve will be as dead as a piece of string. Meantime it may throb at intervals."

That's what it did, too! It dies as hard as a campaign lie. About every so often, just when I'm forgettin', it wakes up again, takes a fresh hold, and proceeds to give an imitation of a live wire on an alternatin'

circuit.

"Ahr chee!" says Swifty Joe. "To look at the map of woe you're carryin'

around, you'd think nobody ever had a bum tusk before."

"Nobody ever had this one before," says I, "and the way I look now ain't chronic, like some faces I know of."

"Ahr chee!" says Swifty, which is his way of bringin' in a minority report.

The worst of it was, though, I'm billed to show up at Rockywold for a May party that Sadie and Mrs. Purdy-Pell was pullin' off, and when I lands there Friday afternoon the jaw sensations was still on the job. I'm feeling about as cheerful and chatty as a Zoo tiger with ingrowin'

toenails. So, after I've done the polite handshake, and had a word with Sadie on the fly, I digs out my exercise uniform and makes a sneak down into their dinky little gym., where there's a first class punchin' bag that I picked out for Purdy-Pell myself.

You know, I felt like I wanted to hit something, and hit hard. It wa'n't any idle impulse, either. That tooth was jumpin' so I could almost feel my heels leave the floor, and I had emotions that it would take more than language to express proper. So I peels off for it, down to a sleeveless jersey and a pair of flannel pants, and starts in to drum out the devil's tattoo on that pigskin bag.

I was so busy relievin' my feelin's that I didn't notice anything float in the door; but after awhile I looks up and discovers the audience.

She's a young female party that I didn't remember havin' seen before at any of the Rockywold doin's; but it looks like she's one of the guests, all right.

Well, I hadn't been introduced, and I couldn't see what she was buttin'

into the gym. for, anyway, so I keeps right on punchin' the bag; thinkin'

that if she was shocked any by my costume she'd either get over it, or beat it and have a fit.

She's one of the kind you might expect 'most anything from,--one of these long, limp, loppy, droop eyed fluffs, with terracotta hair, and a prunes-and-prisms mouth all puckered to say something soulful. She's wearin' a whackin' big black feather lid with a long plume trailin' down over one ear, a strawb'ry pink dress cut accordin' to Louis Catorz designs,--waist band under her armpits, you know,--and nineteen-button length gloves. Finish that off with a white hen feather boa, have her hands clasped real shy under her chin, and you've got a picture of what I sees there in the door. But it was the friendly size-up she was givin'

me, and no mistake. She must have hung up there three or four minutes too, before she quits, without sayin' a word.

At the end of half an hour I was feelin' some better; but when I'd got into my tailor made, I didn't have any great enthusiasm for tacklin'

food.

"Guess I'll appoint this a special fast day for mine," says I to Sadie.

"Why, Shorty!" says she. "Whatever is the matter?" And she has no sooner heard about the touchy tusk than she says, "Oh, pooh! Just say there isn't any such thing as toothache. Pain, you know, is only a false mental photograph, an error of the mind, and----"

"Ah, back up, Sadie!" says I. "Do you dream I don't know whether this jump is in my brain or my jaw? This is no halftone; it's the real thing."

"Nonsense!" says she. "You come right downstairs and see Dr. Toodle.

He'll fix it in no time."

Seems this Toodle was the one the party had been arranged for, and Sadie has to hunt him up. It didn't take long to trail him down; for pretty soon she comes towin' him into the drawin'-room, where I'm camped down on a sofa, holdin' on with both hands.

"Dr. Toodle," says she, "I want to present Mr. McCabe."

Now, I don't claim any seventh-son powers; but I only has to take one look at Toodle to guess that he's some sort of a phony article. No reg'lar pill distributor would wear around that mushy look that he has on. He's a good sized, wide shouldered duck, with a thick crop of long hair that just clears his coat collar, and one of these smooth, soft, sentimental faces the women folks go nutty over,--you know, big nose, heavy chin, and sagged mouth corners. His get-up is something between a priest's and an actor's,--frock coat, smooth front black vest, and a collar buttoned behind. He gurgles out that he's charmed to meet Mr.

McCabe, and wants to know what's wrong.

"Nothin' but a specked tooth," says I. "But I can stand it."

"My de-e-ear brother," says Toodle, puttin' his fingers together and gazin' down at me like a prison chaplain givin' a talk to murderers' row, "you are possessed of mental error. Your brain focus has been disturbed, and a blurred image has been cast on the sensitive retina of the----"

"Ah, say, Doc.," says I, "cut out the preamble! If you've got a cocaine gun in your pocket, dig it up!"

Then he goes off again with another string of gibberish, about pain bein'

nothin' but thought, and thought bein' something we could steer to suit ourselves. I can't give you the patter word for word; but the nub of it was that I could knock that toothache out in one round just by thinkin'

hard. Now wouldn't that peeve you? What?

"All right, Doc.," says I. "I'll try thinkin' I ain't got any ache, if you'll sit here and keep me comp'ny by thinkin' you've had your dinner.

Is it a go?"

Well, it wa'n't. He shrugs his shoulders, and says he's afraid I'm a difficult subject, and then he teeters off on his toes. Sadie tells me I ought to be ashamed of myself for tryin' to be so fresh.

"He's a very distinguished man," she says. "He's the founder of Toodleism. He's written a book about it."

"I thought he looked like a nutty one," says I. "Keep him away from me; I'll be all right by mornin'."

The argument might have lasted longer; but just then comes the dinner call, and they all goes in where the little necks was waitin' on the cracked ice, and I'm left alone to count the jumps and enjoy myself.

Durin' one of the calm spells I wanders into the lib'ry, picks a funny paper off the table, and settles down in a cozy corner to read the jokes.

I must have been there near an hour, when in drifts the loppy young lady in the pink what-d'ye-call-it,--the one I'd made the silent hit with in the gym.,--and she makes straight for me.

"Oh, here you are!" says she, like we was old friends. "Do you know, I've just heard of your--your trouble."

"Ah, it ain't any killin' matter," says I. "It don't amount to much."

"Of course it doesn't!" says she. "And that is what I came to talk to you about. I am Miss Lee,--Violet Lee."

"Ye-e-es?" says I.

"You see," she goes on, "I am Dr. Toodle's secretary and assistant."

"Oh!" says I. "He's in luck, then."