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Updated: June 13, 2025
A man, much less a multi-millionaire, does not give fifty thousand dollars for a bubble, so the managing editors of the leading dailies rushed for their star reporters and the star reporters rushed for Needley and the red-haired, sorrowful-faced man in the Needley station grew haggard, tottered on the verge of collapse, and, between the sheafs of flimsy that the reporters fought for the opportunity of pushing at him, wired desperately for a relief.
All this had taken four days; and now, on the fourth day, there came to Needley the vanguard of those who sought this new healing power just a few of them, two or three, like far, outflung skirmishers evidencing the presence of the army corps to follow.
Larger and larger grew the circle around the Flopper, filling and blocking the road, overflowing into front yards, and massing on the little lawn of the hotel clear up to the veranda until fields and houses were deserted, and to the last inhabitant Needley was there.
They interviewed the Holmes, and they interviewed Needley individually and collectively; and they interviewed Helena but they did not interview the Patriarch.
Also, by now, Madison had learned all that the town knew about the Patriarch which after all, he reflected with some satisfaction, wasn't much. The Patriarch was over eighty years of age, and he had come, deaf and dumb, to Needley sixty years ago nobody knew from where, nor his previous history, nor his name.
"I'd like to see the finish," said the lingerie man still grinning. "Well?" inquired the soap man still grinning. "What do you say?" "You bet!" said the man with eight trunks full of daintiness in the baggage car ahead. "It's Needley for ours you're on!" The Flopper was an artist and he was in his glory.
May I, during my stay in Needley, look upon them in a little way as my own library?" "You are very welcome indeed," the Patriarch answered. "Thank you," wrote Madison. "And now, surely, I must go" he smiled at the Patriarch. "Come to-morrow," invited the Patriarch. "I would like to show you all around my little place here."
Faith, in the abstract, the element of it, is inborn in every soul; and while dormant, until put to a crucial test along any given line, is boundless and unlimited a sort of tacitly accepted, existing state, unquestioned. Faith in many is a sturdy, virile thing to a certain point. It is the fire that proves. Needley had faith in the Patriarch a faith that never before had been questioned.
At moments most unexpected, as now when motoring with Thornton in the car that he had brought back with him on, his return to Needley, when laughing at the Flopper's determined pursuit of Mamie Rodgers, when engaged in the homely, practical details of housekeeping about the cottage, there came flashing suddenly upon her the picture of Mrs.
The Flopper shook his head. "If he's done it fer others, he can do it fer me," he repeated, with unshaken conviction. "An' dat goes I can't lose." Thornton tilted his chair back again, and stared at the Flopper with pitying incredulity. There was silence for a moment; then Mrs. Thornton spoke. "Robert," she said slowly, "I want to stop at Needley."
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