"To Sypher's Cure!" They drank the toast solemnly.
And then Sypher unfolded to his awe-stricken subordinate the scheme for deblistering the heels of the armies of the world.

Dennymede, fired by his enthusiasm, again lifted his brimming glass.
"By God, sir, you are a conqueror, an Alexander, a Hannibal, a Napoleon! There's a colossal fortune in it." "And it will give me enough money," said Sypher, "to advertise Jebusa Jones and the others off the face of the earth." "You needn't worry about them, sir, when you've got the army contracts," said the traveler.
He could not follow the spirituality underlying his chief's remark.

Sypher laid down the peach he was peeling and looked pityingly at Dennymede as at one of little faith, one born to the day of small things.
"It will be all the more my duty to do so," said he, "when the instruments are placed in my hands.

What, after all, is the healing of a few blistered feet, compared with the scourge of leprosy, eczema, itch, psoriasis, and what not?
And, as for the money itself, what is it ?" He preached his sermon.

The securing of the world's army contracts was only a means towards the shimmering ideal.