"Shall we go any farther?" he asked.

 

"No; that's my office," said his companion, pointing to a door, over which was the number 10. From his pocket he drew a key, and opened the door. Sam entered with him. The room was small. One corner was partitioned off for an inner office. Inside was a chair, something like a barber's chair, and a table covered with instruments. Sam's curiosity was aroused. He wondered what sort of business was carried on here. He also wondered whether he would get anything for his trouble.

 

"If you don't want me any longer I'll go," he said, by way of a delicate hint.

 

"Stop a minute," said the old man, who had limped to a sofa in the outer office, and sat down.

 

"I guess I'll get something," thought Sam, cheerfully complying with the request.

 

"What do you do for a living?" asked the old man.

 

"Sometimes I black boots, sometimes I sell papers,—anything that'll pay."

 

"What are you doing now?"

 

"Nothing. Business aint good."

 

"Would you like something to do?"

 

Sam gave a glance into the office, and answered dubiously¹, "Yes." He was not at all clear about the nature of the employment likely to be offered.

 

"Then I may be able to give you a job. Do you know my business?"

 

"No, sir."

 

"I'm a corn-doctor—you've heard of Dr. Felix Graham, the celebrated² corn-doctor, haven't you?" said the old man, complacently³.

 

"Yes," said Sam, thinking that this was the answer expected.

 

"I am Dr. Graham," said the old man, proudly.

 

"Are you?" said Sam in some curiosity.

 

"Yes. Now I'll tell you what I want you to do. Go and bring me that pile of circulars."

 

He pointed⁴ to a pile of papers on the floor in the corner.

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