Mrs. Scutts shook her head.  "His pore back don't seem no better, sir,"     she said in a low voice.  "Can't you do something for it?" 

     "Let me have a look at it," said the doctor.  "Undo your shirt." 

     Mr. Flynn, with slow fingers, fumbled with the button at his neck and looked hard at Mrs. Scutts. 

     "She can't bear to see me suffer," he said, in a feeble voice, as she left the room. 

     He bore the examination with the fortitude of an early Christian martyr. In response to inquiries he said he felt as though the mainspring of his back had gone. 

     "How long since you walked?"  inquired the doctor. 

     "Not since the accident," said Mr. Flynn, firmly. 

     "Try now," said the doctor. 

     Mr. Flynn smiled at him reproachfully. 

     "You can't walk because you think you can't," said the doctor; "that is all. You'll have to be encouraged the same way that a child is. I should like to cure you, and I think I can." 

     He took a small canvas bag from the other man and opened it.  "Forty pounds," he said.  "Would you like to count it?" 

     Mr. Flynn's eyes shone. 

     "It is all yours," said the doctor, "if you can walk across the room and take it from that gentleman's hand." 

     "Honour bright?" asked Mr. Flynn, in tremulous tones, as the other man held up the bag and gave him an encouraging smile. 

     "Honour bright," said the doctor. 

     With a spring that nearly broke the bed, Mr. Flynn quitted it and snatched the bag, and at the same moment Mrs. Scutts, impelled by a maddened arm, burst into the room. 

     "Your back!"  she moaned.  "It'll kill you Get back to bed." 

     "I'm cured, lovey," said Mr. Flynn, simply. 

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