Publisher's Synopsis
Notice any gold dust on my back? No? Well it's a wonder there ain't, for I've been up against the money bags so close I expect you can find eagle prints all over me. That's what it is to build up a rep. Looks like all the fat wads in New York was gettin' to know about Shorty McCabe, and how I'm a sure cure for everything that ails 'em. You see, I no sooner take hold of one down and outer, sweat the high livin' out of him, and fix him up like new with a private course of rough house exercises, than he passes the word along to another; and so it goes. This last was the limit, though. One day I'm called to the 'phone by some mealy mouth that wants to know if this is the Physical Culture Studio. "Sure as ever," says I. "Well," says he, "I'm secretary to Mr. Fletcher Dawes." "That's nice," says I. "How's Fletch?" "Mr. Dawes," says he, "will see the professah at fawh o'clock this awfternoon." "Is that a guess," says I, "or has he been havin' his fortune told?" "Who is this?" says the gent at the other end of the wire, real sharp and sassy. "Only me," says I. "Well, who are you?" says he.
