And if the doctor don't want to keep on with the miracle end of it, the bishop shows him how he could do him good with no miracle attachment.

Fur he has an awful holt on them niggers, and his say-so will sell thousands and thousands of bottles.

What he is looking fur jest now is his little take-out.
That was his craftiness and his cunningness working in him.

But all of a sudden one of his crazy streaks come bulging to the surface.

It come with a wild, eager look in his eyes.
"Suh," he cries out, all of a sudden, "ef yo' kin make me white, fo' Gawd sakes, do hit! Do hit! Ef yo' does, I gwine ter bless yo' all yo' days! "Yo' don' know--no one kin guess or comperhen'-- what des bein' white would mean ter me! Lawd! Lawd!" he says, his voice soft-spoken, but more eager than ever as he went on, and pleading something pitiful to hear, "des think of all de Caucasian blood in me! Gawd knows de nights er my youth I'se laid awake twell de dawn come red in de Eas' a-cryin' out ter Him only fo' ter be white! DES TER BE WHITE! Don' min' dem black, black niggers dar--don' think er DEM--dey ain't wuth nothin' nor fitten fo' no fate but what dey got-- But me! What's done kep' me from gwine ter de top but dat one thing: _I_ WASN'T WHITE! Hit air too late now--too late fo' dem ambitions I done trifle with an' shove behin' me--hit's too late fo' dat! But ef I was des ter git one li'l year o' hit--ONE LI'L YEAR O' BEIN' WHITE!--befo' I died--" And he went on like that, shaking and stuttering there in the road, like a fit had struck him, crazy as a loon.